We All Fall Down
by DanelleSephton
Summary: In the never ending chaos of war, a hero falls. America is captured by the Russian army along with his twin, Canada, and several other nations, They are striped of they're titles as nations and their self worth. Mentions of rape in later chapters, but nothing to explicit, but there will be some torture. Hungary and Sealand are also main characters
1. Act 1: Parts 1-2

…_**Act 1: Captured**_**…**

_If you can accept losing, you can't win._

_Vince Lombardi_

…_**Part 1 Invasion**_**…**

_Breaking news!_

America sighed, tiredly. Was it really news anymore, let alone 'breaking'?

_The Russian troops have further advanced their forces into Canada, and are clearly setting their sights on the capital, Ottawa._

That had his attention, though America really wasn't to be surprised to be honest. Russia had gone against the normal 'World War' tactic of starting the invasion with the nations nearest to him, instead, the Russian had chosen to begin his assault on the America's, namely North America.

_After the siege of Mexico and South America, the Russian forces had turned their attacks on to our nation and the Canadian front. Currently, the Russian's have taken control of most of northern Canada, and they have taken Hawaii and Alaska._

America couldn't help but run a hand over his arm and shoulder. It still ached badly, as he felt like it was on fire. America still had his hands, but moving his left arm itself caused so much intense pain, his boss himself was making America move as little as possible.

_Wait- I'm getting reports that the enemy forces have begun a brutal attack on Ottawa. Our sources are telling us that there is little hope of a Canadian victory._

The nation bit his lip. Poor Canada… why would Russia go after him? America sighed and looked at his hand. Russia was going down for what he did to America's brother. No one messes with North America.

_We're getting word that it is the Estonian army, under Russian control, is the army attacking the capital._

Hm… America paused, If it's Estonia Canada's up against, then the other Baltic's need to be nearby. I know that Latvia was in Mexico, so that leaves Lithuania. Poor guy, none of those three want to do what Russia is making them do, but what choose do they have? If they disobey, their doomed to the fate of total control, like it seemed Canada was under at that moment. Capture hurt a lot, as America understood, it was supposed to feel like being ripped in two, or having your head crushed against a rock and a hard place.

The American's heart faltered a little at what his twin must be feeling right now; it horrified him how he could actually imagine the quiet Canadian screaming and begging for mercy from his captors as they dragged him off to who knows where. But, he couldn't allow himself to hesitate long. More lives were at stake than just his brother's.

America was currently with the president and his family, as well as several fairly burly, serious CIA agents, in a secret underground bunker.

Frankly, it had to be serious if _America _himself was forced in to the same bunker as the president. Even during the most disastrous times, the nation always managed to get out of what he called _self-imprisonment _easily, but this time, they actually had him _dragged in _to the small room by _very big men. _Hell, they even had him _drugged_.

He didn't have any hard feelings, America's boss was just doing the best for his nation; after all, the president wasn't in any danger, it was America that needed protection.

Russia seemed to enjoy taking trophies of his victory, mainly in the form of personifications. Thankfully, France and Britain reacted quickly and were able to evacuate most country's away from the Russian invasion and Turkey managed to get some as well (he would never admit he actually was a little worried about Greece), but they were unable to save some. As far as America knew, almost ever European nation, except for Belgium who somehow managed to remain neutral despite Netherlands being invaded, had some part of it taken over.

But, sadly, no one thought Russia would send troops directly over to the Americas. Because of it, South America, Africa, and Mexico barely stood a chance and they were all now 'one with Mother Russia'. Thankfully, Russia was allowing the personations of the captured nations to stay in their homes, but they were made servants to his generals and underlings, but at least they weren't hurt that much. Sadly, Russia had declared earlier that such measures with the rest of the nations would not be taken, as they had no plans to place any major leaders in North America or the remainder of Europe and Asia. Instead Russia wished to gain them as something like colonies (_god he did _not _want to be a colony again…)_ and he was gathering the rest in Moscow, where they are being 'educated' on their place in the Russian empire, and their people were all herded off to other already occupied countries or were governed by a nearby nation. Either way, the life of Russia's occupied countries was a truly horroible thing.

Just as America's brother would soon be learning.

_We are receiving information that Ottawa invasion has just ceased, but it is not clear who the victor is._

"Mr. America?" he turned away from the TV screen as felt a small tug on his sleeve, "Why are you crying?"

The nation smiled as he wiped his eyes and looked down to the president's youngest son, "It's nothing, bud. Don't worry, everything will be alright."

The boy smiled and climbed back into his mother's lap. America sighed as she lifted him up into her arms and rocked him. The eldest son stood on the side, quiet as normal, watching his family. The president of the United States sat beside them on the couch, with a hand on his wife's back.

"He's right," the president smiled, "Everything is going to be fine."

America turned back to the TV, knowing what his boss assured was directed towards him instead of the first family. He and his entire nation, as well as the first family, knew exactly what was going to happen the second Canada was under Russian control. Regardless of how much he didn't want to think about it, but they were next.

_Wait, word from the Canadian government is coming in that…_

America held his breath.

_Canada has surrendered to the Russian forces. I repeat, we have lost Canada._

The nations barely even felt himself fall back into his seat. America bit his lip and shakily pushed his glasses back on his face.

"America?" he felt a hand on his shoulder, "You're going to be okay, alright."

The blonde nation turned again to be met by his president gently squeezing his shoulder reassuringly, "Even if we are invaded, I won't let them win. In the end, we will have success."

America smiled sadly, "I hope your right boss. For everyone's sake, we have to win."

"Agreed," the president agreed.

The nation and his leader stood still for a moment, "They won't waste anytime attacking me, you know that right?"

The president nodded, "I know, we're ready to defend you at all costs-"

"No," America shook his head, "Surrender."

"What?" his boss step back wide eyed, "Are you insane? Their weakened, we'll have a much better chance!"

"No we won't," the nation sighed, "I've been here a while, I know what will happen," he smiled, "I'm no idiot, it's just easier to be that way, Mr. President. Over the course of my life, I've attended Harvard, Stanford, Yale, and several other colleges respectively. I've seen almost every national crisis in its fullness as long as I have existed. I may not be the smartest country in the world, but I can say I'm on the list at least.

"I know Russia well, he doesn't stop," the nation went on, "The second he gets Canada under his control out right, Russia is gonna be right on our asses. As you know, he sent the Baltics over here to capture us, my guess is Lithuania is coming after us, as they haven't used them yet. Even though they are rather… small, with Russia's forces mixed in with theirs, they stand a fairly good chance. Since we are weakened by the attacks on Hawaii and Alaska, they'd slaughter us," America sighed and put a hand to his forehead, "I don't want more soldiers dead, ours our otherwise."

The president sighed and took his countries hand, "When I took this job, I never really understood just how powerful our spirit was, but now I see," he laughed and clapped his nation on the back, "America, you got balls."

"_Honey!"_ the first lady growled, "The kids!"

"Sorry, sweetie," he shrugged, "I'm trying to give our nation a positive speech as his impending doom approaches."

She rolled her eyes, "Still, tone it down."

The nation laughed, but the moment was short lived as an intense pain reached his head, "Argh!"

The armed guards quickly made to go to him, but the TV interrupted.

_Wait! W-We just received news that enemy troops are already advancing quickly over the border, and into American land._

The president's youngest son started to cry at all the sudden noise, and he wouldn't stop even with his mother's shushing.

_We are awaiting word from the President on what will happen next._

"Do it," America whispered, "Please, surrender."

He hesitated, but he understood. The nation was right; they needed to save lives.

"Alright," he sighed, "How exactly do we go about doing this? I don't we've ever done something like this before."

The nation laughed, though he quickly grabbed his head in pain, "Yeah, I can't remember it happening either. But you need to officially announce it to the media, and I'm sure your advisors can explain the technical stuff," he muffled a scream of pain then went on, "I need to give my self up to Russia's troops."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

The nation chuckled, "Yes, but I have a request."

His leader nodded, "Of course."

"Take our missiles somewhere they can't damage anything, and blow them up while I'm turning my in."

The president sighed, "Why?"

"W-We can't give them any more strength," America gritted his teeth.

"Right," he nodded, "I'll do that, America, don't worry."

The nation struggled to his feet and looked to the door, "Can I ask o-one more thing? It's a bit more personal."

"What?" the president asked.

America took off his jacket with pain and tossed it to him, "Can you take that to… to my b-brother if you see him?"

"Brother?" he questioned, confused.

The nation laughed, "Don't tell him, but the personification of B-Britain. H-He's gonna be w-worried beyond his wits when he hears, even if he's gonna deny it," America smiled, "Can you do that much?"

The president nodded, "Sure, just stay safe."

America laughed and waved off the guards, who all just let him out. The nation just walked straight out, all of the guards well aware of the situation. As he passed, some of the men patted him on the back, a few were actually crying, and even more saluted him. When he reached the exit, he slowly opened the door with pain, as his arm still ached from losing his states, America was greeted by a familiar face.

"Hello, Lithuania," he struggled to smile, "You look well."

The other nation sighed, "Your surrendering then? So soon?"

"I don't wanna lose to many lives," the blonde chuckled, "Lost too many already."

Lithuania smiled and put out a hand to him, "Come on, I can't say this is going to get easier, but at least I can get you to your brother."

America took the hand as a large army van drove up, bearing the Russian flag, "So this is it," he laughed, "Never thought I'd bring myself down this low."

"Listen," he said as he led the other nation to the back of the van, "I need to explain some things to you quickly, we don't have much time. Are you listening?" America nodded, "Good, Russia has come up with some rules for his captured nations, I-I don't understand them, but I need to enforce them. You can't refer to yourself or any other captured nations as _nations_, you need to use a human name. As far as I know, Russia doesn't care what name you call yourself, you just can't call yourself America."

The American scoffed, "That makes no sense, but okay." Some soldiers quickly came out of the van. They started to search the American nation, quickly stripping him of his many, many guns, knives, and such weapons, as well as his shoes, tie, dress shirt, and belt, leaving him in his pants and his under shirt.

"The rest is just the normal stuff," Lithuania pressed on, ignoring the soldiers, "Just don't argue and you should be safe from Russia, okay?"

The blonde nation nodded awkwardly as Lithuania opened the back of the van, "Good, but, please be safe."

"Course!" America struggled to laugh as a soldier grabbed his bad arm and was forcing him in the back, "How can I not, I am the hero~"

Lithuania laughed as he was shoved in the van, "Of course, Mr. America. I hope you are."

…_**Part 2: Reunion**_**…**

"_Give up trying to make me give up"_

― _Masashi Kishimoto_

…

The blonde nation landed on his face in the van, "Ow…" he whined, "Okay, that hurt…"

"A-Are you okay?" a quiet, pained voice whispered.

America looked up towards the voice, "C-Canada, bro?"

The northern nation flinched at his name, "Y-Yeah…"

America quickly leaped to his feet and examined his twin as the van went into motion. Canada wasn't much better off than America, if not worse. It looked like his right arm was broken and he had plenty of scars all over him. America quickly stripped off his undershirt and fashioned a makeshift sling for his arm, "Woah, dude, what happened?"

The Canadian shrugged uncomfortably, "I-It's no big deal. One of the soldiers got me in the arm when I fought back before we surrendered."

His brother smiled, "That's amazing bro! I can't believe that!"

"It's not that cool," Canada chuckled as he fixed his arm in the sling, noticing how the fabric seemed to smell of cheese burgers and greese, though he made no comment, "Did Lithuania tell you what Russia's making the nations do?"

America nodded, "I can't understand why he wants us to change our names, but it isn't like we have a choice."

"Yeah," the Canadian said, "How do we do this?"

"Picking names?" his brother questioned as he sat beside Canada and put an arm around his shoulders.

"It can't be that hard," Canada mused, "I-I mean, humans do it all the time."

America laughed quietly, "Yeah, bro, but don't humans name their kids, not themselves?"

"Hm, your right," the other nation said, "Since we really have no choice, why don't we name each other."

The van then hit a large bump, sending both to the ground. America moved quickly so that his twin wouldn't land on his broken arm, rather finding it better for him to land on America, "You okay?" he asked, helping the other up.

"Uh huh," Canada rubbed his bad arm gently as he sat down again, "Anyway, I-I don't wanna forget anything that happened outside of where we're going, so I think our names should be reminiscent of our pasts."

"I agree!" America smiled, "I think you should be… Mattieu. That's French right?" Canada nodded, "Then Mattie it is!"

'Mattie' sweatdropped, "Well then, if you want to do it that way, then you're Alfred."

"Why," 'Alfred' asked, confused.

"Cause it's the first English name I can think of," Mattieu smiled, painfully.

The American didn't argue, but it was clear that he was unhappy, "Fine, bro. But know I'm only agreeing cause heroes don't argue with the wounded."

The Canadian couldn't help but laugh at his twins moping, "Think about like this," he said, "Maybe this way, if we're captured for a long amount of time, it's a way to remember them."

"Yeah," Alfred sighed, "But eyebrows like that are hard to forget."

"And no one can forget that laughed," Matt smiled, "Honhonhon~!"

Alfred laughed sadly, "You sound just like him."

He smiled as they hit another bump. This time, they were a little more prepared and they managed to stay on the seat.

"Do you think we're going to be okay?" Alfred questioned, almost fearfully.

Mattie smiled, "I think so. It's not like these odds have brought us down before. We just need to endure."

"And one other thing," Alfred smiled.

"What?"

"We pray those idiots can save our asses."

_Hi, there! I'm Danelle Septhon. I want to make this a good fic (but I get easily distracted so I may need a few reminders that this exisits)_

_so I plan to make this the only author's note._

_I want to make myself clear on the pairings cause I'm not doing this again. I have SET pairings that I am not changing. Here is what will be included on purpose (I can't control how fangirls twist stories around:_

_Hungary/Austria_

_PruCan_

_FrUk_

_America/Belarus (maybe, I don't know on that one but if it is, it will only be a little)_

_A little later Forced! OneSided! RusAme_

_EDIT: Sorry, I forgot to mention that there is ChinaXRussia too XD_

_Anything else is pure, unadulterated brotherly or sisterly love. No arguments, sorry. This is a torture fic, so expect the worst. I don't want to make this a death fic, but there will be some small character death._

_I realize my story is probably crap, but I liked the idea, and I had to write it XD Hope you all enjoy!_


	2. Parts 3-4

_**I urge you to at least try to translate the French, some maybe wrong, so I apologize in advance.**_

…_**.**__Part 3: Humiliated__**….**_

_It has always been a mystery to me how men can feel themselves honoured by the humiliation of their fellow beings._

_Mahatma Gandhi_

…_**.….**_

"Wake up."

Alfred shifted silently, feeling a rough hand grab his shoulder.

"I said, wake up!"

He heard a different voice that time, and a muffled cry of pain. At that he shot up from his seat.

Two soldiers in Russian uniform were in the back of the van. The larger of the two had a firm hold on Alfred's shoulder and was mercilessly shaking the American. But the other was he his main worry, "Let go of him!"

Alfred jumped up and went to grab his brother's attacker, but his own soldier grabbed his arm and pulled him back into a headlock.

"If you resist, we will be forced to psychically detain you," the large man said in an emotionless monotone.

The American wasn't listening, instead he was going over his brother injuries mentally.

Matt was forcing himself to stand up from the cold, metal floor, and the soldier screaming at him to move helped nothing. Alfred's sling had fallen off, and the broken arm was at by his side in an unnatural (and probably painful) position. The Canadian's face hit the ground hard by the angry red marks on his face and the crack in his glasses.

"Just let me help him!" Alfred practically screamed as he struggled, "He can't stand on his own, can't you see that?"

The solider looked to the other and they released Alfred and moved to the door, "Hurry up and stand," the one that kicked Matt barked.

Alfred had some rather choice words for them, but bit his tongue and pulled his twin up gently by slipping under his armpit and "Hold on, Mattie."

"I'm alright," Matt whispered, leaning against Alfred, "It just hurts a bit."

"That's the exaggeration of the year," he mumbled, helping the other go forward as the soldiers led them out in a hurry, "Come on, there's a step."

They carefully jumped down from the van, and were startled by the bright light of an army base. The Russian flag flew proudly in the cold wind, billowing intimidatingly. By the way Mattieu tensed as they hit the snowy ground, Alfred guessed they were in northern Canada. It made sense; the colder area was more homey to the Russians than anywhere else in North America, making it an ideal base. Still, it had to be killing the Canadian that he was being held captive in his own homeland.

"Move it, comrades, we need to get the pigs in the cage before sunrise," a rough, clearly Russian voice barked orders authoritatively. The guards each slammed a hand one the brother's backs, shoving them forward every so often in the correct direction.

Every time the hand came in contact with Matt's back, the guard hit him directly on his shoulder, making the Canadian wince and instinctively grab his injured arm. Alfred slouched a little bit and pulled his twin's arm back up over his shoulder whenever he felt the other slipping.

"Do you _have _to do that?" Alfred growled as his brother whimpered slightly. He was given an answer through a blunt slap across face and one of the guard pushing his face into the dirt. Matt screamed his name as the other guard held him back roughly.

"You have no say here, boy," the guard growled, cruelly pushing him harder down onto the gravel, "Worry about yourself first, and you may just survive." With one last slap, the guard stood and pulled Alfred up with him. He motioned to the other to give Matt back to his brother.

The Canadian worriedly looked at his twin, but Alfred simply shrugged him off and once again pulled his arm back over his shoulder, "It's no big deal, Mattie," he whispered, "I'm fine."

The soldiers continued pushing the brother's to the main army base.

The base itself didn't suit the purpose as much as it's surroundings; in fact, it appeared to be mainly a school or college. The base itself was made up of three close buildings surrounded by a tall chain link fence and separated by a road in the middle. The area was well lit by telephone poles that had been reverted into spot lights. It appeared to have once been a fairly well travelled street, as the paint on the asphalt was worn and there was cracks and gravel along the edges of the road. The main building, the one that the brothers were being led to, was shaped like an L, with one long wing pointing out toward the road, and a more square one that Alfred quickly identified as once being some form of gymnasium at one point. The two other buildings on the other side of the road didn't appear to be part of the campus. It almost made the American laugh to see Russian troops walking in and out of a Tim Horton's till he remembered why they were there. The other building looked to be a civilian home taken over by troops. From their brief glance at the house, he saw that there were still even some toys and such in the front yard and a Canadian flag that was probably yet to be removed lay forgotten on the ground. Alfred could practically feel his brother's sadness for the family as they passed the forgotten mark of the country.

"Get a move on!" an irritated soldier pushed them again, this time managing to land them both on the cold ground. They landed side by side in the grass in front of the home, directly by the tattered flag, "Get up!" the man barked.

Alfred was on his knees first, helping his brother to his feet. The Canadian lingered for a second on the ground, clutching the grass for a moment, till he stood shakily with his injured arm hovering around his side. Alfred put his arm over his shoulder again and they went on. The American made no comment on how the flag they landed on was no longer there, but the guards didn't even notice.

The soldiers led the brother's past the home and brought them up to the school's entrance. The entrance was standard for schools; glass door, small inner hall, buzzer. Of course, most schools didn't have armed guards, but that was beside the point.

One of the men opened the door and the other stood behind them and as the two walked into the glass room. The guard closed the outside door and buzzed in (apparently school security was good enough for Russians), then led the two nations in side.

Alfred peeked in to some of the once classrooms as they passed by, but all he really saw was soldiers quarters and supplies.

After about a half an hour of walking the halls, they came to what was once probably a principal's office. They were told to sit down on a bench outside the office, like two boys being sent to the principal's office. Except for the armed guards, it was basically the same feeling, "Wait here," a soldier ordered before he went into the office.

The American didn't move his arm from his brother while they waited. The Canadian sighed and cradled his broken arm against his chest, "You're bleeding," he whispered, even quieter than normal if that was even possible, "And your glasses are broken."

"Yeah, I figured," Alfred smiled, "No big deal for the hero~!"

Matt looked at him and ran a hand over the scratches on his cheek. The Canadian smiled back at him through his own cracked glasses, "When this is all over, allow me the honor of replacing them, no arguments."

Alfred didn't even have time to argue about his brother's offer as the soldier stepped out of the office, followed by a man they took as a general.

"Greetings, North Americans," the man said bluntly as he stood before the two countries, 'I am Commander J. Smirnov, I am in charge of this base and I expect you and your people to do as we say. We are under orders not to kill you, but know that you will be punished without mercy should you choose to this obey. Am I making myself clear?"

"As day light," Alfred flashed his famous thousand watt smile. His cocky grin was met with a closed handed blow to his already bleeding cheek.

"I will tell you two something very important, boys," the commander growled, "This base is to become the main holding center for people like you. Tomorrow, we will be receiving more prisoners, and we have orders to keep them scared. If you keep up that attitude, boy, you will make a fine example as you fall under the might of mother Russia."

The commander moved his eyes from the American to his brother, "You are the one who was called Canada, da?"

The Canadian flinched, "Y-Yes."

"Your land is beautiful and suits our cause well," he said, "It will be even more amazing as our headquarters, though I doubt you agree," Smirnov moved a hand to run over Matt's injured arm, causing quiet squeak from him and a growl from his brother, "Your arm is very damaged, but I may not offer either of you any medicine till after the little show."

The last comment left them confused, but then, suddenly, they found two soldiers holding hand cuffs behind them.

"Let go!" Alfred fought back before he has kicked in the stomach hard enough to make him stop for a moment.

"I must announce to the world our victory, da?" Smirnov shrugged as he turned to his men, "Prepare the camera and these two as I explained earlier."

The men grabbed the North America twins and dragged them by their feet into the office in a rather humiliating fashion. They were harshly tossed against a wall, and before Alfred could take in the room, and blind fold was a tossed around his eyes, "Adds to the effect," someone with horrible breath whispered cruelly in his ear, "Make it much more enjoyable, da?"

From the whimpers he heard beside him, Alfred figured that his brother was in a similar fix, but he had no time to stop it, "Start filming, I want to begin," he heard Smirnov say, "Are we rolling? Good, then we shall begin."

Alfred heard footsteps and figured he was directly in front of him, "Greetings Europeans," he heard the commander say to a camera, "I am Commander J. Smirnov of the Russian Front, currently located in the country once known as Canada. I have been asked by my betters to take on the task of showing you what happens when you disobey my people," suddenly, Alfred felt a firm hand around his neck, lifting him up off the ground and cutting off his air supply, "This fool believed at one point that he and his people could defeat mother Russia, and he may have done so at one point, but by the power of my nation, we have forced even the once great Americas to their knees!"

The Russian commander laughed as he threw Alfred against the wall. As the American caught his breathe, he felt his brother next to him, struggling to help him, despite his own bonds. He heard a yell, figuring Smirnov had taken his brother into a choke hold this time, "And this one," the commander's voice boomed, "Is exactly what you don't want to become, Europeans. Is giving aid to a losing side really worth your lives? Surrender peacefully, and this will not happen to you."

Alfred heard the sound of his twin slamming down next to him, "Now, comrades," he heard the commander say before he could even react, "Show the Europeans what happens to our enemies."

The American was quickly flipped over as he felt rough hands pressing him down against something hard (a chair he guessed). He heard a brief sound behind him of something sizzling, then he felt an intense heat on his shoulder as red hot brand was pressed into his skin.

Alfred couldn't help but hold back a scream as the brand burned his flesh. For a few long moments, he could hear nothing as his senses dulled, but as his wits returned, he found himself panting as he was thrown from the chair and the blind fold was removed. A solider grabbed him by the arm and made him look forward.

The American watched in horror and disgust as his twin was tied to the chair as well, a different brand being lifted to skin. He heard Matt scream only once as the brand hit his shoulder before he slumped down. When the soldiers cut the binds holding the Canadian to the chair, he fell to the ground, arm landing in an unnatural position.

The solider holding Alfred let go, and the nation crashed to the ground. At the moment, he forgot about the camera recording his movements and called out his twins real, nation name. The second he uttered it, Alfred felt a boot land directly on the searing burn on his back, "Traitors to mother Russia are less than human, and far less than countries!" the commander said as he kicked him over and over again.

Alfred curled into a ball on the ground, putting his arms over his head as the kicks flew in, as he felt something he had almost never felt before; complete humiliation. He felt so weak that he was being brought to his knees by a mere human, and he was unable to help his brother. Worse, they had it all on video. Alfred knew all the remaining free parts of Europe would be horrified when they saw it, but he didn't want to feel pity. He was the hero, heroes didn't need pity!

Still, when the kicks finally stopped and the American felt his body being lifted again to show off to the camera, he managed to open one eye that wasn't swollen shut, and give a thousand watt, Hollywood smile to the people he knew would be watching and did what he did best.

…_**.**__Part 4: Keep a Stiff Upper Lip__**….**_

"_If you are going through hell, keep going."_

― _Winston Churchill_

…_**.….**_

England bite his lip as he saw the bloody head turn towards the camera and smile that oh so bright smile.

"_If you don't get here soon, I may just need a little back up~!"_

The flat attempt at a joke fell short as the island nation watched his ex-colony be beaten again before his eyes.

"Why do you keep watching this, Angleterre?" the hand of a certain Frenchman touched his shoulder, "I understand your worries, they have my frérot as well, if you have forgotten. But forcing ourselves to scour over their torture will do them no good, mon ami."

"Shut up," the Brit pushed him away, "I need to see if I can find out where exactly in Canada's land they are. If we know that much, not only can we free them, but the prisoners they're sending there."

France sighed, "That's right, I forgot they took Sealand too."

England clenched his fists, "This isn't just about the boys France! It's about the world!"

"Oui," France nodded grimly, sitting beside England and taking the laptop off of his lap, "We have managed to evacuate most of the personifications, but we unable to get some away."

"Sealand," England covered his face, "Austria, Hungary, South Italy, our boys; they're all in danger because I was to slow."

"Non!" France stopped him, removing his hands from his face, "_We _were too late. _We _not _you_. And it is more my fault than yours! I'm the one who told Russia he was a fat ass, right?" the Briton chuckled and nodded, "See? I deserve much more of the fault than you! Maybe you should punish me with some of those handcuffs I know you have with that bobby uniform you have, non~?"

England sighed and leaned back on his couch, "Please remind me again why my home has become our base of operations?"

"Because you stubborn, giant eye browed Brits managed to stopped your invasion in Cornwall," the Frenchman chuckled, "Making your little island the safest place to be for now."

The shorter blonde sighed and just took his laptop back, "I still can't wait till this is all over and I you all can get the fuck off my little island."

"Trust me, mon ami, you aren't the only one," France moaned as he dramatically posed, "Your food is horrible, I don't know why you won't let me cook."

"Because I like my kitchen to be a perv-free zone," he glared.

France pouted, "You wound me, Angleterre. I am a flirt, no more, no less."

"Sure…" the Brit sighed as he started to replay the video of America and Canada's torture.

France watched silently along with him, "How can you do it, mon ami?"

"Do what?" England barely even turned as he spoke.

France reach over and paused the video right when Canada was about to be branded. He reached two fingers to the screen and briefly touched the image of his little brother's head like he could actually offer some form of comfort, "How can you work so hard when you are so afraid for them. Don't even try to hide it, I've know you since we were both fils together. You fear for your own frérot as much I do mine, if not more, yet you work as if it's nothing."

"Stiff upper lip," England replied crudely.

"Stiff upper lip?" he raised a well groomed eyebrow.

"Yes," the Brit sighed as he continued the video, "It means to preserve and not give up," he shrugged, "It's a British thing."

France chuckled, "Well, if our frère can be as strong as you are, then they may just have a chance."

"Humph," England smirked, "Though he may not act it much, America was raised an English gentleman and he has as much a stiff upper lip as me. As long as Canada stay with him, he will be fine, don't worry."

"My petit lapin is just as strong as your frère," France argued, "He was raised a fine Frenchman and he will be well off."

"Oh shut up, frog!" England pushed him aside, "I'm going to bed. If you need anything, it can wait till morning."

France laughed sadly as he watched his old friend leave, "Oui, Angleterre, keep your stiff upper lip for our boys, and I will keep mine. You can bring them home, and I will help you with all my strength, and together, we are nothing to laugh about, oui? Honhonhon~!"


	3. Parts 5-6

…_**.**__Part 5: Moving__**….**_

_No one is so brave that he is not disturbed by something unexpected._

_Julius Caesar_

…_**.….**_

Austria was very unhappy.

His fingers were a little numb from the lack of their normal use, he was very tired from having stayed awake for more than three nights, and he was in dire need of a shower. To add insult to injury, he wasn't even Austria anymore.

Roderich was the name he gave himself for this little adventure. Honestly, the Russian had to be losing his mind if he really thought changing their names would do much to him except make the Austrian even more pissed off.

He wanted to make music. Roderich wanted to feel the cold, smooth ivory keys on his piano, hear the crisp sound of a bow on strings, or even a simple harp would be fine. The silence was killing him; it felt unnatural in every aspect.

The pianist was startled as he felt warmth on his shoulder. Roderich turned a saw that Elizabeta (that was the name Hungary picked) had fallen asleep on his shoulder, her hair falling out of her bandanna. She had Austria's filthy jacket around her shoulders and her hand held his. The Austrian brushed her hair out of her face silently as he looked to the others.

Their small cell became cramped right at the beginning of the war, when Russia began taking everyone by surprise. First, he began an attack on the countries closest to him, as per normal, quickly taking most of the Baltics, Ukraine, and Belarus, but each of the country's officials were able to stop the take overs midway by agreeing to be Russia's allies. After that, Russia moved his sights on to Poland, Austria, and Hungary, as well as the Americas. They quickly captured Austria and Hungary, but the Lithuania government had been secretly assisting their neighbor's by sending soldiers as immigrants over the free waters of the Baltic Sea and making them appear to be have come from Sweden, who's country had been taken but the personification evacuated. While Russia had the rest of Europe distracted with Poland and South America, he quickly began an attack traveling down, capturing all the already evacuated land until he reached Greece, who was saved by a somewhat hesitant Turkey. That invasion ended when Germany became enraged by their attack on Italy and he pushed them into their occupied land in Austria. Somehow, though, Russia was able to gain the southern half of Italy while Germany preoccupied with the northern half.

The eldest of the Italian brothers was currently as far away from the others as he could get, huddled in a little ball and clutching his legs in his sleep. Roderich understood his discomfort; the invasion had left his leg sore and weak, and the bitter cold of their prison could not be helping him.

Lovino, as Southern Italy was to be called, turned over in his sleep and let an arm fall over the boy next to him.

As soon as South America fell and the North American invasion began, Russian forces began attacking France and England as well as Asia and Africa, though most of the personifications in immediate danger had been evacuated secretly to Australia, who had signed a nonaggression pact with Russia early on. When the attack on England began, the basically nonexistent country of Sealand was taken as a Russian fort, and its personification seized.

As soon as Peter, which he later came to be known as, was thrown into the cell, he seemed to latch on to Lovi. Roderich guessed that maybe the cold atmosphere of the Italian was similar enough to that of a certain Brit that Peter was able to feel comfortable with him or maybe he just needed someone to latch onto.

Regardless, the two weren't exactly a perfect pair, but Lovino treated just like he did his actual little brother; with taunting, cursing, and anything he could throw in absence of his tomatoes. Still, he would allow Peter to snuggle against him like a koala at night and the Italian would try his best to comfort the child as he called out for England to save him in his night terrors.

Tonight, though Roderich was glad to see both Lovi and Peter sleeping well as he stayed watch. From day one, Hungary had mentioned a fear of someone taking one of them away as they slept. Roderich bluntly dismissed this theory, but ever since, he would stay awake in the night and watch the door. Lovino would take shift every other day or if he woke early, so that the Austrian could have some well-deserved rest. That they had grown comfortable enough to sleep soundly in a place like this was rather sad, but it was a sweet, almost family-like picture.

"Rise and shine!" a deafening voice broke his thoughts and the others sleep, "You must wake up, now, or you will meet my stick!"

Roderich glared at the face of the personification of Russia, "What is it you want, Russia?"

"You do not address you betters in such a way," Russia smiled as he smacked Roderich in the face with his pipe, "You should know that by now."

"Just say what you came to say!" Lovino replied, groggily as he pushed Peter off of his chest, though the micronation stayed firm on his lap.

Russia smile, "I am sorry to inform you that you will no longer be staying with me in my homeland."

"_What?" _Elizabeta asked shocked, "You letting us go?"

Russia slapped her, "A woman should not address a man unless she has permission. And no, my boss has just finished the North American take over, so those to annoying Americans are now one with Mother Russia."

Roderich's eyes widened. _He captured AMERICA? _the Austrian thought rapidly, _Wait, he said Americans, meaning two. So he must have captured the other one… what was his name? It was Ca... Something like that, but he was America's twin, I know that much. _

"We decided to move prisoners across the pond as the America's contain none of our enemies anymore, as they are all one with me," the Russian's grin widened as he spoke the horrible news.

Roderich felt Elizabeta go to get up, probably wanting to slug the man, but he held her down with difficulty, an act that thankfully went unnoticed by Russia.

"I will not be accompanying you to your new home," he smiled, "But one of my allies has agreed to go with you. I wish you safe journeys."

As the Russian left, Lovi stood and brought Peter up in his arms, "Who do you think is taking us?" he asked with venom, "Think he got Poland, by now? Or that jerk Britain, or my brother, or Spain!"

"Stop it, Romano!" Peter grabbed his tattered shirt.

"No, Peter!" Roderich chided as he stood and helped Elizabeta to her feet as well, "You can't call him that."

"He needs to stop thinking that way!" the little nation argued, "We can't think about them!"

Lovi looked down at him for a moment, and sighed, "They actually brought down the Americas…"

"It's tragic and horrible," Elizabeta said as his straighten her ripped skirt, "But this is war, and this _is _Russia. Nothing is unexpected in a world war, you should know that Lovi."

The Italian nodded, as the door began to open, "If I head-butt who ever walks in that door, think I'll get shot?"

"I'd rather you didn't," Lithuania said as he entered the room, "But I'm unarmed."

"You really trust prisoners that much, Lithuania?" Hungary laughed, "I thought you were raised better."

The Baltic laughed back, "Yes, but I mean you no harm, and I hope you mean me no harm, old friends," he sighed, "And we are as captured as you are. The Baltics and Russia's sisters have adopted names like yours behind Russia's back as a sign of protest."

"Then what do we call you?" Austria raised an eyebrow.

"Toris," Lithuania smiled, "I quite like the feel of being a person instead of a country for a bit, despite our situation, it's a fair pleasure."

"Is this some kind of game to you?" Lovino raised an eyebrow, "You think there's anything _fun _about this."

Toris put his hands out in deference, "You mistake my meaning," he smiled nervously, "I was rather hoping to lighten the mood before I crushed it."

"What could make this worse, now?" Roderich rolled his eyes, "Has Russia banned puppies, candy, and happiness?"

"No," Lithuania replied as he pulled some things from the many pockets in his army uniform, "I've been in contact with the free European nations. According to them, a few hours ago, they received a video tape from the prison camp we are sending you to. They said the that the man running the camp has been ordered to make the Americas into an… _example_," the Lithuanian said the word with such venom they were taken back, "Regardless, I need you to get this to them the second it's safe," he handed Elizabeta a fair amount of medicine, bandages, food, and water, "You need to all make it out alive. There's no question. We can't lose anyone. But if they fall, the world will go with them.

"As much as we all don't want to admit it," Toris went on, "America is needed, and so is Canada. Both of them, as well as the rest of the Americas, are major exports of basically everything from weapons to basic resources. They have always been there for us in the past, now it's our turn to lend them a hand, no?"

The Hungarian silently slipped the supplies into her dirty apron, "I'll do my best, but I'm not the best with medicine."

"I'm fairly skilled at it," Roderich straighten his bent glasses, "You and Italy used to get yourselves fair boughs of trouble in your youth."

Elizabeta smiled and kissed his cheek, "We should get going."

Toris smiled at them and led them to a small cargo plane. He shrugged an apology as the army pilot walked into the cockpit, "It's the only thing they would spare that could fit all of you. He opened the back door to reveal a large amount of various goods and supplies, but no seats, "I'd suggest holding on to something."

With that, the four nations huddled into cargo hold, Roderich and Lovino on the outsides trying to keep some of the cargo from hitting the others during takeoff, and the plane began its journey over the Atlantic, over to a whole new hell.

…_.Part 6: The Room…._

_No one knows what to say in the loser's locker room._

_Muhammad Ali_

…_.…._

It was about three A.M. when the cargo door opened again. The nations were greeted by the lovely face of a dozen Russian soldiers and their guns escorting them out. They saw no sign of Toris, though they figured he was already inside.

They reached the door quite quickly. They were buzzed in, escorted down the halls, and stopped at what looked like an office.

A man in a commander's uniform stepped out, and looked them over, "Welcome to hell," he smiled, "I am Commander J. Smirnov, and I am the devil."

Without another word, he waved them off, telling the soldiers to take them away. The men did so, grabbing them by the arms and leading them down a hall way. Soon, they came to a staircase, which they went down. It was all pipes and machines that Lovino took it as some kind of maintenance area.

They came to the end of the staircase and they only went a little farther till they came to a door. The door itself wasn't anything remarkable. It was steel of a medium thickness, and it had an old wooden door knob that looked like it really didn't belong. The troop obviously had added some more locks and bolts to it, making it in to a much better prison.

A man opened the door and quickly shoved them in, "Please excuse the mess! We figured you wouldn't mind!" The soldiers locked the door to the room

Lovino managed to have Peter land on his chest, though Roderich and Elizabeta were less lucky, landing of a few pipes. The room was like the rest of the lower floor; cold, mechanical, and old. It was a very large room, more like a storage room, but too large to be called a closet. There's was no windows, so the smell of oil, dirt, and copper wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. There really was nothing remarkable about the room; it was empty with the exception of several pipes, a few rags, and a dark pile in the corner…

"America!" Peter screamed, jumping from Lovi's arm and running over to the prone figure, quickly followed the by the others.

The brothers had been thrown to the ground quite roughly. America had obviously pull Canada onto his lap before passing out himself. They were both shirtless, revealing scratches and bruises, but the Italian knew they had other wounds because the coppery smell in the room just didn't match the cuts. He noticed the Canadian's arm looked rather… crooked. It was probably really broken, but that was to be an afterthought. They needed to find where the blood was coming from.

Roderich gently went to move Canada from his brother's lap, but a menacing growl hit him first, "Ah," the Austrian said sympathetically, "I see you're awake, America."

Tired, hesitant blue eyes meet his own, "Don't… touch… him…" the American panted, wincing slightly as his hand moved to his brother's.

"We need to look at his arm," Lovino said, not bothering to sound comforting, "You're both injured and you're dying. Let Roderich treat it."

"…who?" the American painfully cocked his head.

Lovino pointed to Austria, "That's Roderich, I'm Lovino. Jerk Britain's little micronation is Peter, and the ladies Elizabeta."

"A…Al…Alfred… and… M…Mat…Mathieu," he struggled as his mind finally registered who they were and allowed his body to relax. He and his twin were in good hands. Suddenly, Alfred just felt so tired.

"No, Alfred," Elizabeta kneeled down beside him as Roderich and Lovino eased Matt off of him, "You can't sleep yet. Wait a little while until we get you two patched up."

The American gave a sad weary sigh. He felt a small hand in his own, and looked down to see a small nation, "Hey little guy…"

"Please don't die," Peter whispered, "England would be so sad."

"Can you lean forward, Alfred?" Elizabeta asked, pulling bandages and medicine from her apron, "Lovino, get those rags from the ground, you need to make Mathieu a sling at least, and see if you can set that bone."

The American allowed himself to turn slightly to look at his twin lying next to him. Mathieu had passed out within seconds of the hot iron of the brand coming in with his already weak shoulder. When they were brought down to their new prison, Alfred had dragged them to a corner, held his brother to his chest, ignoring the pain and blood on his back.

Now, the Canadian just looked _dead_. He obviously wasn't dead, but Matt was pale as snow, his head hung limply as Roderich leaned him forward to see his back, and, even in his unconscious state, his face would flinch slightly when Lovino tried to examine the fracture on his arm.

"Alfred," Elizabeta breathed, gently running a hand over his back, "What did they do to you?"

Both of the brothers' backs were coated in blood and blisters, a strange, fresh burn gracing their backs in the same spot, "They branded them," Lovino said, as a fact instead of a question, as he looked at the symbol on Mathieu's back.

By dabbing away at the burns with a bit of Toris' antiseptic on a rag, they were able to stop the bleeding enough to see the brand. Just below each of their right shoulders, a thin-line, five pointed star with a tree inside it was burned into their flesh. Lovino took brief notice of the small "N" on the Canadian's back. The Italian guessed the American would have an 'S' in a similar style on his own back, probably representing the northern and southern countries.

"This will sting a little," Roderich warned as he turned to Alfred with the antiseptic, once he was done with his brother.

Alfred struggled to hold back his cries of pain as the medicine touched his ripped skin. He knew it was only to help him, but God it _hurt_. He bit his tongue to keep the screams back. Peter had been holding his hand earlier, but he had just jumped into Lovino's arms (which rather confused the American to see the normally cold Italian so open) and the British fort cried quietly into his shoulder. It made Alfred feel a little bad; this must be scaring the crap out of him, let alone scaring Peter for life. He hissed as the rag ran along his skin again, "I'm sorry, Alfred," he heard a voice say kindly to him, though he didn't exactly now who said it.

He could feel bandages going around his chest and a hand brushing the hair away from his face. Normally, the bubbly, attention whore that he was, he would be thrilled to have so much attention. But right now, he just wanted to sleep, but resting was quite hard to when the people around just kept telling you to stay awake. He was just. So. _Tired._

"We're almost done. Just hold on a bit longer, then you can rest," that time Alfred could tell it was Elizabeta by the gentle tone and a hand petting his hair. He said nothing, only nodded to her, as he heard a brief moan from his side.

"Ah…." Mathieu breathed out in a raspy voice, eyes still closed tightly behind his cracked glasses, "Al… Alfred?"

The room was still with shock that the Canadian could even speak with such painful injuries. Alfred, not the other hand, didn't hesitate. "I'm here, Mattie," the American whispered lightly, as he slowly put his hand in his brother's, with obvious effort, and gently rubbed small circles on top, "It's alright. We're gonna be okay, now."

The Canadian's eyes slowly opened, completely bloodshot. Roderich and Elizabeta sat down beside them, and Lovino sat down with a still slightly sniveling Peter on his lap.

"Lithuania told us what happened," Roderich said, "But we had no idea..."

"Its fine," Alfred interrupted, "I'm sure others have had worse." His brother just nodded slightly.

"When did they get you two?" Lovi questioned.

Alfred sighed, "About a day ago. Mattie earlier than me. How's his arm?"

"Its fine," the Canadian whispered.

"No, it isn't," Roderich sighed, "I'm pretty sure his forearm is fractured, and a small part of the bone looks like it's about to pierce through if we aren't careful. I didn't want to set it without him awake, in case anything went wrong," he gingerly moved the Canadian's arm to his lap, making Matt flinch a bit, "May I?"

Matt nodded slowly. Roderich took some bandages off of Elizabeta and the largest of the remaining rags, "This will hurt," Roderich warned as he gently gripped Matt's arm by the wrist and elbow.

"Just get it over with," Matt took a deep breath.

The Austrian looked at him sympathically, then snapped the bone back into place.

Mathieu screamed and threw his head back against the wall. He quickly regretted it as a headache hit him and he felt lightheaded.

Roderich quickly began to wrap the arm tightly, causing the throbbing discomfort to turn into a searing pain.

"Just take deep breathes, Mathieu," Elizabeta calmed, "Just breathe."

Roderich moved back a little after he tied the tight bandages before he eased the Canadian's head forward. He gently put the fabric around his neck, easing the arm into it, "Don't worry," he said as he made sure he didn't forget anything important, "The pain will fade eventually."

"We should get some rest," Lovino volunteered, "It's been a busy day. I'll take watch."

Elizabeta removed Roderich's jacket from her shoulders and emptied her apron. She took the larger fabrics and covered the twins carefully, "You can sleep now."

Mathieu was asleep within seconds, the pain finally getting to him. He settled himself against his brother's side, minding his arm and still holding his hand. Alfred moved his arm around him in an awkward hug leaning his chin against sandy hair. He too quickly fell asleep, with a new sense of security in the prison, though he knew, that this was a battle they would never win. But this was still a good start.


	4. Parts 7-8

…_.Part 7: Save Me…._

"_I've learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you'll miss them when they're gone from your life."_

― _Maya Angelou_

…_.…._

_The valley was freezing cold. Then again, the North was always freezing. The boy wrapped his fur coat tighter around himself._

_His coat was real seal pelt, with pretty red and white beads on it. The nice Eskimos who gave it him told him that he was special, so he needed a special coat. He wished he looked more like them (their tan skin, wise black eyes, and black hair fascinated him), but they didn't mind how different him looked. It made him happy._

_The boy looked out over the sea, trying to catch a glimpse of the men his people had been talking about. He had heard them speaking of strange men on huge, floating mountains coming over the waters. They had brought exotic goods to trade and gain the favor of his people, and they promised to return soon. The boy was warned to be careful around them, but he only wanted a peek at them, he wouldn't even talk to them._

_He sat down behind a tall oak tree and hid behind a low branch. The boy was only about four, so he could manage it quite well. He settled into his coat, and waited for the ships to come._

_It was almost five hours later that a glimpse of something reached his drowsy eyes. _

_A large black mast slowly peeked over the horizon. The slim pole was quickly followed by a ship as it quickly came up towards the end of the water._

"_Terre!" he heard a strange voice call out from afar, "Nous avons attaint la terre!"_

_The ship gracefully came up to the small bay, stopped about a half a mile away, then put a few smaller boats in the water to come to shore._

_The little boy watched, intrigued, as white, light haired men stepped off the boats. They looked a lot like he did; long fair hair, pale skin. But their clothes were obviously not suited for the weather. They wore bright, vibrant colors, but they were thin and flowing. The boy gave them two days, and they'd be frozen._

"_Maintenant, Samuel," a rich, velvety voice sounded much louder than the others, " Où sont les gens étranges que vous avez parlé?"_

"_Ils sont quelque part par ici, monsieur!" an older voice called, "Nous avons juste besoin de regarder."_

_The little boy heard footsteps and crunching snow growing louder and louder, "Pensez-vous qu'il ya une nation?" the velvety voice said again as it headed towards the tree._

"_Peut-être," the older voice sounded. The young boy had no clue what they were saying, but he was fairly scared. He quickly climbed up the tree and hid amongst its branches. He heard the footsteps underneath the tree stop._

"_On dirait que quelqu'un était assis dans la neige," the older voice said. The boy held his breathe and peaked down slowly to catch a glimpse of an older man and a young man with flowing blonde hair._

"_Est-ce que quelqu'un ici?" the blond asked, looking around the area._

"I'm here, Papa…"

_The boy tried to hide further in the leaves, but he almost lost his hold the tree, and a small branch fell to the ground._

_The man turned around, "Honhonhon~!" he chuckled, "Donc, vous vous cachez de moi, non?"_

_His heart started going a mile per hour as he heard the man start to find the tree._

"Please save me, Papa…"

"_Oh, vous êtes un enfant," the blonde man said as he reached the branch the boy hid on, "Vous êtes un peu jeune pour grimper à un arbre comme ça."_

_The boy just settled further into the bark, unable to look away from the man, "Parlez-vous français?" the man asked him, smiling softly as he moved towards him carefully._

_He stared at him in horror, trying to move farther away, but his foot slipped and he felt himself falling to the ground._

"Papa…"

"_Woah!" the man jumped out and grabbed him, somehow managing to hang on to the boy and the tree._

"Save me, Papa…"

_The sudden movement scared the boy, making him cry, "Je vous suis!" the man said soothingly as he pulled him back into the tree, "Je vous suis! Vous êtes sûr, mon petit. Je vous suis…"_

"_France?" the older man called up into the tree, "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"_

"_Juste un petit garçon," he called down as he began to climb down, the boy in his arms, "Je pense qu'il est le représentant de cette nation."_

_The boy realized how horribly his plan had failed, and he began to struggle in the man's arms, "Let me go! Let me go!"_

_He man chuckled as the little boy hit the snow and hid behind the tree, "Oh! You speak anglais!" he knelt down and put a hand out to him, "It's a pleasure to meet you, my name is France, I'm your big brother. Who are you?"_

"Papa…"

"_I-I…" the little boy peaked out from the tree, despite his better senses, "I don't know."_

_The man smiled brightly, "My boss is calling you New France, but you are not me, mon petit, so I will call you…"_

"Papa…"

"_I will call you-"_

"Canada!"

The Canadian's eyes burst open, unable to see very well as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, "A-Alfred?"

"You were talking in your sleep, bro?" The American said, "Nightmare?"

"No," Matthew sighed, "Actually, it was… a pretty good dream."

Alfred squeezed his twin's good shoulder for a second, "Don't worry, bro! The hero will make sure you and your papa reunite!"

"I hope you do, Al…" Matt chuckled, "I really do…"

"Glad to see you boys are feeling a little better," Roderich said, gaining their attention from across the room, "But need to discuss something with you."

…_.Part 8: Democracy…._

_The spirit of democracy is not a mechanical thing to be adjusted by abolition of forms. It requires change of heart._

_Mahatma Gandhi_

…_.._

"What is it Roderich?" Alfred turned, forcing his still stiff body to move a little.

The Austrian fixed his glasses, "Well, I figured that as we have some items and medicine that our captors may take away," he grabbed hold of a loss panel in the wall and pulled it away to reveal a small hole, "Lovino was able to make this last night while we were sleeping."

"I figured we needed somewhere to hide the medicine," the Italian shrugged.

Peter smiled at him, "It was an amazing idea, Lovi!" he laughed, making Lovino blush.

"We also hid some personal items in there," Elizabeta added, "Everything we had in our pockets, mostly."

"I wanted to know if you had anything you wanted saved," Roderich explained.

"Yeah," Alfred stretched and took off Texas, much to everyone's shock, "Don't be so surprised. My glasses are cracked already, but I don't need them to see, I'm far sighted. As long as I don't need to dodge any snipers, I should be fine."

The Austrian took the glasses from his hands and carefully laid the cracked glass in the hole, "Alright then-"

"Wait!" Matt sat up, "Take my glasses too, Alfred, for once, makes some sense. And… take this too…" Carefully, almost reverently, he pulled a tattered red and white Canadian flag out of his pocket, "I picked it up from the house out there. It was just lying in the yard, so I picked it up… I couldn't just leave it there…"

"It's alright," Roderich looked at him with pity as he took the flag and the glasses from the shaking hands and laid them on the , "If it was me, and that was my flag, I would have done the same thing. I think we all would have."

The Canadian smiled, "Thanks."

Alfred yawned, "So, any idea what's gonna happen today?"

"Alfred," Roderich sighed, "How in the world would we know what's going on?"

"Luck?" the American shrugged as the door opened with a slam.

Commander Smirnov's combat boots made a loud clanking sound as he stepped through the door before it was tightly bolted, "Good morning! You have all slept nice, da?" he waited a second as if waiting for a response, "Good! You will need your energies today."

"And why would that be?" Alfred questioned cockily. He was then meet by a foot in his gut.

Smirnov chuckled as he kicked him again, "You do not question your betters!" he leaned down and sneered in the American's face, "I like breaking the cocky ones; more of a challenge."

Alfred growled, but the commander covered his mouth, "You have fire in your eyes, boy," he laughed, "I'll enjoy quashing it."

"Don't touch him!" everyone turned in shock to Peter, who jumped up and started punching the man's legs.

"Peter, stop!" Lovino cried out in panic as he dived to get the small boy away.

The commander jumped at his chance, picked up the struggling micronation, and kicked Lovino in the face, "You won't be able to give as much information as this one," Smirnov commented, examining the angry little nation in his arms, "But you will make a nice little example to your friends and the public," he turned to the horrified others, "Know this, mother Russia is all powerful. We are unafraid of anything, and we will do whatever we must to anyone, even children," he knelt down through Peter out the door to a soldier.

He then grabbed Alfred by the face and made him look at him, "I will crush the fire in your eyes, and I will crush the hope in your little companions as well. You think that this is all some game, boy? For me, this is a game, but there are no heroes or villains in this game, only you and myself. Outside of here, you may have been great, but here, you _will_ fall. Have faith in that, boy."

Smirnov threw the American back roughly against the wall and spit on his face. The commander stood up and laughed before leaving.

The room was completely silent except for the bolting of the door, and Lovino's hard breathing as he looked to his hands, "…Peter…." The Italian whispered in shock, "…God, why?"

Elizabeta hastily knelt down beside him as Lovi started to shake a little, "It's alright," she whispered, "It's going to be fine."

"I almost had him…" Lovino whispered, "I almost had him…. I could have saved him…"

"No you couldn't have," Roderich sighed, "This is Peter we're talking about. He's as pigheaded as hell, he would never let you stop him."

"I had to try," he shook his head, "He's just a little kid…"

"Thank you, Lovi," all eyes turned to America, who was rubbing his head from where it came into contact with the wall.

The Italian looked at him questioningly, "What do you have to thank me for?"

"Peter is basically our brother just as much as he is England's," Matt explained, adjusting his sling a little, "Thank you for trying to help him."

"Don't mention it," Lovino leaned against the wall a little sadly, "We need to stick together, or we're all gonna be dead."

"I agree," Roderich nodded as he settled next to Elizabeta, "This isn't a one man fight."

Both nations of North America nodded.

"I say we need some democracy in its most basic form!" Alfred laughed, a little quieter than usual.

"For once," his brother sweatdropped, "You make a point."

Elizabeta raised an eyebrow at them, "Is this _really_ the time to be spreading democracy?"

"No," Alfred shrugged, "But the whole principal of democracy is that the people have a say in what happens to them."

"So," Matt said pointedly, "We establish goals that we all agree are our top priority. Then we focus our efforts on the most important of those goals."

"Our first goal is to all get out of this alive," Lovino said, instantly, "We protect each other, and we don't let anyone die."

"I like it," Elizabeta nodded, "And we remain equal, no matter what. No one gets more than another."

Roderich examined his finger nails, trying to appear indifferent, "That sounds fair, but staying in touch with the outside world must be a priority."

"We can have Toris help us with that much," Alfred nodded, "I think… we should all be each other's goals. We all escape together, no matter how injuried, no matter what happens. Even if one of us dies, we still bring them out with us. We all need to go home to our friends and family."

They all agreed to this plan quickly. It was comforting to have some kind of plan for their situation, though they still held serious fears for their young friend.

"What do you think they're doing to the boy?" Lovi asked quietly.

"I don't know," Roderich sighed, "But worrying will do nothing for him."

The Italian ran a hand over his face, "I know, but he's a kid."

"He's a kid with hundreds of other people worrying about him," Elizabeta rubbed his back.

Alfred chuckled, "Yeah, and Iggy has to count for, like, half of that. So don't worry. There isn't anything we can do for him anyway."

Lovino smiled sadly, "I hate this so much. We're so _helpless _and there's nothing we can do about."

"We can hope," Elizabeta smiled, "And that's what's important."


	5. Parts 9, 10, and 11

…_Part 9: Support…._

_'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, but to support them after._

_William Shakespeare_

…_._

England read the telegram again, "Is he positive?"

"Toris has hardly been wrong before," France sighed as he put a hand on his friend's shoulder, "We have no reason to doubt him."

"God, Sealand…" the Brit covered his face, "You couldn't have just stayed quiet?"

The Frenchman beside him hugged him awkwardly as he recognized the pain England felt, "Oh, Angleterre, you and I both must realize that your little micronation has his brother's stubbornness as well as his eyebrows."

England brushed him off, "Shut up, frog. I'm not in the mood."

"When are you in the mood?" France commented, almost as an afterthought. England elbowed him in the gut, though he really didn't argue otherwise, "Angleterre," France ruffled his friends hair, "You worry far too much. It pains me just as much as it does you. My petit lapin is in as much danger as your frérots are. Have faith, mon ami, if we don't trust Toris and our other friends, then they, as well as ourselves, are as good as dead. Whatever happens to Sealand, I have faith that our boys and the others can protect him. They will be fine."

England looked down at his hands, "I need to help them. But their out of my hands, and it's killing me."

France once again wrapped an arm around him, "Mon ami, they _are _out of our hands, so there is nothing we can do for them except try to help them anyway we can," he squeezed the Brits arm, "That doesn't mean that you need to worry yourself sick over all of this."

"I want them back France," England closed his eyes as he broke away and stood up, "I want to bring both my boys home, I want them to tell their alive and well, I want Sealand to come home so that I can tell him he's a country just to see him smile, and I want to tell America I'm so sorry for all the shit I put him through. I want to show them that I care about them. I need them to know that I worry about them all the time."

"Angleterre," France sighed, simply standing with him. He didn't try to hug the Brit again, but he took him by the hand, "We're going to get through this. You'll get to do all of that, I promise you. If you cannot have faith in Toris, in yourself, in me; than have a little faith in America. He isn't stupid, as he'd like us to think he is. Our little Amerique is smart, he can protect your Sealand."

"And who's going to protect him?" England smiled ruefully, not looking at him, "He's the 'hero', America doesn't care if he gets out or not, he's going to make sure everyone else does."

France laughed slightly, "Well, he was raised British. Perhaps he is as much of an absolutely invincible English gentleman as his brother, non?"

England punched him in the gut, "Shut up, frog."

"Honhonhon~" France laughed, doubling over slightly, "Does this mean the annoying little Angleterre I call my friend is back?"

"I never left," Britian scoffed, walking out of the room. France followed him out.

They ended up sitting on the front porch of England's small house, looking out into downtown London.

The normally crowded city was quite with a looming presence hanging over it. Cars still zoomed pass roads as usual, but everything just seemed quieter than normal. It was the result of war that couldn't be helped, but city still boomed as usual.

"Your home is so…" France searched for the right word as he and England watched the lights go by, "Unusual."

"Keep calm and carry on," the Brit waved him off, closing his eyes.

France remained silent for a few minutes as a slight breeze blew past, "You know, Angleterre, I was think about something Toris said to me early."

"What?" England looked at him.

"Lithuania said he gave himself a human name because he was as much a prisoner as those in prison," the Frenchman mused, "It makes me think; we are just as much prisoners as our brothers. We have no say in our situation, and no way to change it."

"Huh," England laughed, sadly, "I think this war is messing with your mind, frog."

France blinked, "What?"

"You're starting to make sense, all of a sudden."

"You sound surprised mon ami," France sat down on the porch steps, "Regardless, what do you think of following Toris' idea."

"And why would I want to do that?" England raised an eyebrow.

He sighed and looked off into the distance, "I really don't know. I just… I think I just want a way to support mon petit lapin, even though he can't see me and I can't see him. As strange as it sounds, I just can't think of anything else to do for them."

"…how about Francis?"

"What?" France turned to the Brit confused.

"You wanted a name; at least Francis is an imaginable name."

The Frenchman rolled an eye, "But it's so _predictable, _Angleterre. Is that all you can think of?"

"Why do you want my opinion so much?" England rolled his eyes.

"What fun is giving yourself a title?" 'Francis' said in a lofty voice, "I believe giving myself a title would be wrong, so if you believe Francis is my name, then that is my name, Angleterre."

England didn't know what to say, "I… Well, frog, what about me?"

"Oh?" Francis smiled, "You trust me enough with something like that? Very well… Perhaps Arthur. It seems like a common name from your home, non?"

'Arthur' glared, "Whatever."

Francis grinned and threw an arm around his friends shoulders, "Well then, Arthur, what next?"

"We need to get in contact with those inside," Arthur brushed hair out of his face, "We need to at least show them that we are doing something. We can have Toris get into contact with them, and he can convey our plans to them. Also, we need to regroup the Allies."

"Agreed," Francis leaned back, "We have most our old counter parts freed, with the obvious exception of our enemy. Also, I do believe the old Axis maybe willing to assist."

Arthur bit his lip and dug through his pockets. He brought out a scrap of paper and a blue pen, with which he jot down a small list of all their possible allies, with his and Francis' nations at the top, "I think we should contact China and Japan first. They're the most in danger, with the Asian invasion at its peak."

"I think you can handle explaining it to them, as you have stronger ties to Japan, and China is too paranoid to make a move without Japan," Francis reasoned.

"It feels a little wrong to take at vantage of him like that, but we have no choice," Arthur agreed, "We should wait till we have an established alliance set until we seek help from Germany and Italy. They have enough to worry about."

"I fear for Italy," France commented almost to himself, "His brother was captured, and he is under constant attack. He really hasn't had an attack like that since… Well, since we were children, and I was charging after him. He's probably scared out of his wits."

"He has Germany to protect him," Arthur hesitated before patting Francis' back, "That oaf won't let anything hurt him."

Francis laughed, "Anyway, after we get our forces back up, we can start to retake our land."

"And our boys," Arthur nodded. Francis took his hand as they sat.

"Oui," the Frenchman nodded, "And our boys."

_…Part 10: The Soldier's Contradiction…_

_War is so unjust and ugly that all who wage it must try to stifle the voice of conscience within themselves._

_Leo Tolstoy_

…_.._

The guard stood his post outside the door.

He was a large man; bulky, not much of a neck, thick fingers, bald head hidden by his uniform cap. The guard was a stereotypical thug, with education up to sixth grade, who only spoke his native tongue of Russian. Still, despite his below average intelligence, even he could tell the screams were young.

For the past two hours, the weak, high-pitched screams sounded from behind the door. He wasn't on watch when whoever was in there was taken in, but the guard that he relived looked a bit shaken, so he expected that it was a child the commander was torturing.

Commander Smirnov was a cruel man; even his own men knew that much. He had no pity, and he had no remorse. Smirnov didn't care about who he was hurting, so torturing a child was certainly not beyond his power. Whether his stern, evil nature towards others came from his loyalty to Russia, or if he really was insane.

The guard couldn't understand what the boy (he assumed it was a boy) was screaming, he was able to use the little English that he knew to realize he was probably screaming for his father or someone of the sort, as he kept sobbing out the same name.

No, the guard shook his head silently, as much as he knew from the English language, 'England' wasn't a name, and neither was 'America' or 'Canada'. But didn't his superiors say their prisoners were countries? So maybe the boy was calling out for А́нглия. If that was true, then the others had to be Аме́рика and Канада. That would make a bit of sense.

Either way, the screams were deafening. He could hear fist meeting flesh every time a scream sounded, which made another scream erupt, starting the whole process over again.

It was a little saddening to hear the cruelty of war in such a small voice, yet, the guard was not surprised. His father had been in the last World War, and his grandfather had been in the very first. It was a legacy of death, but all of them seemed to survive each time, so he had little fears. Still, the guard's father had warned him of the dangers that came with war, and he wanted to serve his country anyway.

"England!" the child screamed for his А́нглия over and over again.

Another punch sounded, "Be silent!"

The repeating cycle of screaming and punching continued on for hours, till morning came and went. It wasn't till noon tomorrow that the guard was to be relieved, so he choose to just put up with the sounds as he stood watch.

He himself didn't have kids, so he didn't know how to respond as Smirnov dragged the boy out of the room.

"You there!" the commander barked at him, shoving the bloody boy into his hands, "Take this down to the hold, and be none too gentle with him."

The guard did as told, and lifted the little child up, "Yes sir."

Despite orders, for some reason he just couldn't be rough with the child. He held the boy by his dirty blonde hair and moved hair from his eyes as they went.

The boy seemed to feel the slight gentleness, as he didn't struggle. His clothes were tattered apart, though still together, but he must have been freezing. As soon as they were out of sight going down the stairs, the guard unconsciously started to rest the child's head against his chest, just to test what it would feel like.

He soon felt soft sobs against him as the boy started to shake slightly. The guard didn't know what to do to make him stop, so he just moved faster down the stairs as he felt a sticky red substance on his uniform coming from the boy's back.

The guard reached the prison at the bottom of the stair way quickly. The man watching the door looked to him and the boy in his arms. He took the boy roughly from his fellows arms, and literally threw him inside.

"Forget about them, comrade," the other soldier told him, "They are not our concern, Comrade Smirnov will handle the others. The justice of Russia will prevail."

And the guard believed him.

…_Part 11: Pretending …__Pretending that we live doesn't make us alive._  
_ Serj Tankian _

_..._

Peter hit the hard stone floor with a thud as the door closed again.

"Peter!" Elizabeta, motherly instinct guiding her, was the first to him, "What did they do?"

The boy remained still, the wind currently knocked out of him.

Lovino and Roderich quickly followed, the later holding their medical supplies, "Peter, where are you wounded?" Roderich pressed.

"B-Back…" the Sealander flinched.

It took a little longer, but the American twins managed to his side. Alfred kneeled beside him and gently eased him on to his side so that Roderich could see his back and he took his hand, "It's gonna be alright, little buddy," Alfred forced as convincing of a smile on his face as he could manage, "Roderich's gonna fix you up, just hold on."

Mathieu sat next to his brother quietly, using his good arm to gently pet the boy's slightly bloody hair in a comforting way, while Lovino sat by and watched sadly.

Meanwhile, Roderich bit his lip as he and Elizabeta cleaned Peter's wounds.

Thankful, there wasn't that many, but it looked like he had been whipped. Through a brief count, Elizabeta quietly mumbled to him that there was about four slashes across the Peter's back, not very deep, but surely painful. He had more bruises than anything, but Roderich couldn't do much for them except hope that they hadn't done any major damage.

Without a needle and thread on hand, he had to stem the bleeding with pressure alone. Roderich pressed hard against the wound, silently praying that the Lord wasn't too busy to save a little boy.

Peter screamed at the pressure on his back, tears falling from his face. He ached all over, his bones felt like lead, and his head felt heavy. Peter wanted to go home. Why wasn't he home? No one thought he was a nation, so why should he be here? He didn't care anymore about his nationhood, anymore. All he wanted was to go home, patch up the ol' fort, see England, and annoy the hell out of him (yes, even Peter admitted he was annoying, but he always meant well). But he wanted his big brother to lift him up onto his lap and tell him everything was going to be fine and that all this was a big nightmare. Peter knew his big brother could fix anything. He'd just hug him tight to squeeze the hurt away, and maybe kiss his forehead to chase off the headache and bad thoughts. He just wanted to go home.

"Peter!" Alfred called worriedly, "You need to stay awake, buddy."

"E-Eng…land?" he questioned, too tired to realize his mistake and his blurred vision not recognizing the difference between blondes.

The American bit his lip and looked to the others. Roderich shrugged as he finished staunching the bleeding and wrapping the cloth around him. Alfred took it as a 'He's a scared little boy, just pretend so he can sleep' kinda look. But, he gladly went along with it.

"It's alright now… poppet," Alfred soothed in his best British accent as he lift Peter gently in on to his lap, "No one is going to hurt you anymore."

Peter just latched on to Alfred, "S-Swear it?"

"I swear," Alfred smiled as one hand held the little nation by the back to him and the other was raised in a mocked vow, "On my rank as a most noble English gentleman that you will be safe, I swear it."

"Thank you…" Peter cried quietly as he lost consciousness.

The American gently pet the boy's hair and moved him to lay next to his side, "How much medicine do we have left?"

"That's what you're worried about, burger bastardo?" Lovino snapped, "It's because of your snide remarks that Peter nearly _died_ in the first place!"

"That is enough, Lovi!" Hungary growled.

Roderich sighed, "This isn't the time to blame one another. Either way, we don't have much left. I don't suspect Toris thought we'd be using it so much in a few days."

"So what happens if this happens again?" Mathieu pressed.

"It's can't Mathieu," Roderich shook his head, "So until we get into contact with Toris again, we need to save our supplies, and try to avoid… that."

Alfred's hand continued to pet Peter's hair through the whole conversation.

"Al," Matt questioned, "How in the world did you convince him you were England?"

America chuckled and motioned for his twin to sit next to him, "Hey, you still speak French like a pro, I guess I picked up more Brit talk from the man than I wanted to, the git."

"I guess you're right, mon ami," Matt laughed, letting the language of love remind him of much better days, "Get some sleep, brother, you've earned it."

Alfred smiled and leaned against the wall, "You?"

"I'm taking watch tonight," he addressed to everyone.

"You sure?" Lovi asked as he settled down.

The Canadian shrugged, "Now that the general pain has subsided, my arm's really uncomfortable. I'm never gonna get to sleep anyway."

"Alright than, goodnight," they said as all went to sleep.

Mathieu moved his good hand to his back once they were all asleep. His callused fingers went over the bandages, to where the burn on his skin was.

He moved from his own mark to where his twin bore the same symbol. Alfred was in pain, like he was, that much was clear to Matt. He wished he could be such a leader even in times like these, but he always was the quiet one. That has qualities of its own.

Mathieu sighed and brushed his brother's messy hair. With out their glasses, neither brother could see details, but Matt guessed they all looked like something the dog dragged in. He never really felt that he looked as handsome as his papa and others would call him, so it wasn't a worry to him. His brother, had always been the handsome one (who cared it they were identical, no one saw Mathieu, so they're had to be _something _wrong with him). He wanted Alfred to be the same normal Alfred; movies star looks that he always wanted to improve.

It was scary to see him scared and sad. It couldn't be a good sign.

Mattie sighed a mouthed a brief 'heaven help us' before zoned out.


	6. Part 12, 13, 14, 15

…_.Part 12: Son…._

_I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father's protection._

_Sigmund Freud_

….

_Peter buried his head deeper into his brother's chest, "I'm scared," he whispered._

"_You have no have no need to," England smiled as he stroked his hair, "I'm here, everything will be alright as long as I'm here."_

"_Don't leave me again," the little nation cried silently, "I don't wanna be alone."_

"_You aren't alone," the elder sighed, "The whole world wants you and everyone else to get out. You'll all be safe soon. I swear."_

_Peter buried his head between England's shoulder and neck, "It hurts so much."_

_England gently rubbed his hand ruefully on his ripped up back. He wished he could just scars away._

"_The pain will fade," the island nation responded after a while, "All wounds do, with time at least."_

"_I wanna go home, Iggy," England's hear clenched as the younger nation in his arms gripped his shirt, "I don't wanna be here anymore."_

_He bit his lip and leaned his head in the soft blonde hair, "Please just hold on. You and the twins and the others; please just hold on."_

_Peter cried a little harder, sobs wracking his body slightly. England made him come out of his shoulder and sit on his knee. The Brit sadly had one hand holding the smaller hand, while the other gently wiped away Peter's slowly forming tears, "You need to be strong, Peter. I need you to make sure America and Canada are okay. I need all my boys to come home. Can you do that for me?"_

"_I-I don't know…" Peter sobbed, looking down, "It's too hard…"_

"_I have faith in you, lad," England smiled, running a hand over his cheek to make the boy look up, "A nation can never lose hope."_

"_Nation?" Peter breathed, tears ceasing for a moment._

_England laughed, "Of course, just don't tell anyone I said so, alright?"_

_Peter didn't respond, instead he flung his arms around his brother and buried his face into his shirt, "I love you."_

"_I love you too, poppet. I'm going to bring you home," the Englishman smiled, kissing his hair, "You don't have to dream that part."_

Peter opened his tired eyes to find himself in sleeping American arms instead of British. He chose not to say anything, as everyone was asleep (he had a feeling that the Canadian beside them wasn't sleeping, but rather too caught up in his own thoughts to be truly considered awake).

The Sealander wondered if his big brother actually wanted him back. Was England really trying to rescue him? Did he even care? The Brit certainly had every right not to care and just leave him to die. He was just a pain in his side since the day he was built. His little fort never really benefited much to the other nation, nor did Peter offer anything beneficial to him, unlike all of his other brothers when they had been under British rule. America had vast lands and rich resources, Canada was filled with animals for fur and food, and the list went on and on. But little Sealand was just a little wannabe just off the coast of a once powerful empire.

Still, he held his hopes high that the man he had learned to see as a friend, brother, even a father of sorts, was looking for him. Not just the twins, _him_. He wanted to believe that someone was missing him, that he wasn't just someone who was captured with more important people.

Peter felt a few tears fall from his eyes, onto America. The liquid hitting his bare chest must have slightly woken him up, because the little nation felt hands gently petting his hair, almost like England did in his dream, and he heard a small whisper in his ear telling him to rest. Peter hesitantly did fall into a fitful sleep, trying to mentally imagine it was his big brother hugging him.

…_.Part 13: Father…_

_It is a wise father that knows his own child._

_William Shakespeare_

…

Meanwhile, in London, Arthur was pulling his tie tightly around his neck, hoping that Francis and his emergency G8 meeting of the remaining members might be able to draw in the power that they needed to save the others and end the war.

The Brit knew that most of the nations really wanted to do something; Russia's victims and his captives were there long time allies and friends, they wanted them to have freedom and vengeance as much as Arthur himself did. They all grieved the worlds loses, but they needed to remain realistic

They had their own fights. China, Japan, and the other Asian nations had to force Russia upward on a daily basis so that the largest country wouldn't seize anymore land (though at most their combined efforts did little more than hold back the growing presence). Italy was struggling to keep the forces in his occupied southern lands from taking over the rest of his country. Germany at the most part was trying to balance his weakened forces between his own defenses and his southern neighbor's impending takeover. And even Francis and Arthur were severely weakened by Russia.

He hoped that he could convince the others to join Francis and his alliance, so that they could bring home the captured prisoners, and end Russia once and for all. It was a shot in the dark, but maybe, if they played their cards right, they could manage. They needed to form some kind of deal, at all costs.

"Are you ready, Angleterre?" Francis interrupted his train of thoughts, "The others have all gathered, and we're waiting for you to begin, mon ami."

"I'm ready," Arthur sighed, turning from his mirror, "Do I look alright?"

"You look stuffy and uncomfortable," the Frenchman walked over to him and pulled his tie loose, "No one else bothered to be so formal, it's not necessary."

The nation of love showed that fact well. He wasn't in his normal bright and extravagant uniform, but in rather casual attire. The Frenchman wore plain jeans and a white t-shirt, as well as a simple suit top and black loafers.

Arthur, on the other hand, had dressed himself for a normal, formal meeting; full tan suit, white dress shirt, brown tie, and his best loafers, "I don't care," he said as he fixed the tie again, "I can at least try to _appear _like my country isn't fall apart at the seams. You should take heed, they may be our friends in a way, but we have to make our side seem a bit more…"

"Attractive," Francis finished, patting his back, "I understand what you're saying, mon ami, but they _know _we aren't doing any better than them, so what the point?"

"_They _are the point," Arthur growled, "Everyone is the point. This isn't just stopping invasions anymore. It isn't like the other World Wars. Russia has seize _continents_, not just countries. This isn't just a battle for the captured, this is for Africa. For Antarctica. For South America. And for the New World we dragged into our world so long ago. This is a battle for the whole _world_, Francis. If me wearing a damn suit can even make them _lean _towards our alliance, then by God, why am I the only one bothering?"

Francis smiled, "If you can talk to them like you do to me, then Russia is as good as dead."

"Let's just go," he rolled his eyes and left the room, "This isn't going to be easy."

"But," Francis smiled and followed, "A father will stop at nothing to save his sons, even if he must do so alone," he winked at the empty room, "Of course, I'm not going anywhere, non? Honhonhon~!"

…_.Part 14: Most Certainly Not Insane…._

"_There's a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased this line."_

― _Oscar Levant_

…_..….._

Loud foot steps paced back and forth in rapid succession. They echoed threw the halls, as if screaming just how important their owner was.

"Stupid, stupid, _stupid!"_ Russia growled to himself, "They can't gain anymore land, or they will never give in."

He really knew all that the world thought of him. A madman, they called him, nothing but an egotisical, psychotic, and _insane_ madman bent on world domination. Of course, Russia also was quite sure they were completely incorrect.

He had a plan that would benefit the whole world. He would make all of them one with him, take the heavy burden of nationhood off his old comrades. That's why he wanted them all to have human names, so they would be used to being as such. Russia was almost tempted to take such a name as well (he actually had been toying around with names in his free time. He found Ivan had a nice ring to it) but he always reminded himself that such petty passtimes were unfit for the future World.

Yes, he would free the other nations from there chains and let them have normal, happy lives (granted, he couldn't take away there immortality, and they'd have scars and injuries for the rest of time, but that was besides the point). As he would be the only remaining nation, his name would become irrelevant, and he would be the World. Once he had his new found position, he would first make sure to have the once nations in important roles in their homes. He knew they would never be comfortable completely outside of their countries government, and having immortal leaders in his future disticts would prove quite beneficial to him as long as they behaved (and, as an added bonus, he found just thinking of a certain over hyper blonde as a president to be rather amusing).

He just needed to capture them all.

Russia sighed and ran a hand over his hair. The others were being quite resistant to his forces, though they had to know it was a fruitless battle. He had been smart; as much as the hated to admit it, every time War was usually the same. Europe starts the fight and drags Asia in right behind them. They quickly engulf Africa unwillingly. And once European forces are exhausted, they would go and bring in the Americas, while Australia and Antarctica are just abnormally confused.

But Russia played the game backwards. He captured South America and Africa first, so as to weaken American trade and to take away one of their main war time powers; the Grand Canal. That kept America from concentrating his forces quickly, and his attacks would be slowed. Then, he started took the Baltics and his sisters, simply to distract everyone from his Bring-Down-America tactics, as well as his beginning attacks on Asia and his own Allies. They were rather angry with him on _that _G8 meeting, but it was rather funny when they tried to kill him then and there. It gave him many happy smiles to think of their horrified faces.

But the best was when he finally took over North America. He started with Canada, simply because he could. Russia had thought that America might become enraged by a direct attack on his own land (look at what he did to Japan, Russia didn't want to be the second nation to ever have a nuke stuck in him), so he decided to use Canada's land against him. He felt strongly that America wouldn't shoot a nuke at his brother's home, even if he did, Canada would feel the pain, not Russia. So, Russia ended up taking over the northern twin and immediately charged into America. He was shocked by the strong-willed nations surrender, but he did feel happy to know the American had finally grown up through his many times in war (hundreds of years as a nation had little outward effect on the boy who appeared only nineteen).

The surprisingly easy conquest of North America seemed to be the last straw for the world, but it was much too late. Russia felt confident enough that even all the nations in an alliance couldn't stop him and his people. Russia hadn't expect them to evacuate the personifactions, but it didn't matter anyway. He did have some of them, and he, again, _he had North America! _Just that conquest was enough to even make the British lose their calm.

Once the world was one with him, he would allow the nations to reunited, then they'd be put to work. Everything would be united and wars would end. No more bloodshed, no more famine, no more crime, no more pain, no more hate. Russia would make a perfect world. No strings attached, no gimmicks; just a utopia for the world to enjoy. Eveyone would be happy eventually. Eventually.

"M-Mr. Russia?" Lithuania walked into the room, "A-Are you alright?"

Good old Lithuania, never changing Lithuania, "Da, I am fine," Russia hesitated for a moment, "Lithuania, may I ask you something?"

"Da?" Lithuania asked.

"Do you think I'm insane?" Lithuania stepped back as Russia smiled eerily.

"I-I-I…" he stuttered, "I-I don't think so…"

Russia turned, ignoring the major hesitation in his voice, "I thought you wouldn't, because I am not insane," his smile grew, "I am most _definitely _not insane."

_...Part 15: No….._

_To apologize is to lay the foundation for a future offense._

_Ambrose Bierce_

…_._

Germany was quite hesitant when England and France came into the meeting room.

He didn't really want to go at first, but it was Italy who made him go.

"We need to at hear them out, si?" the once chipper voice that had recently become so tired and strained echoed in his mind, "And they want to save Mr. Austria and Miss Hungary! And my brother…"

If it wasn't for the fact that Russia had Italy's brother, Germany doubted he would even be here. Still, he did know Austria quite well, and it was hard to picture the sophisticated, calm gentleman in a prison cell at the mercy of a madman, and Germany honestly didn't want to picture it.

Regardless, Germany didn't really know what to think of the war. As much as he hated to admit it, when it came to World Wars, he usually lost. Maybe he was too cocky, maybe he just had horrible luck. Either way, Germany really didn't want to be involved in another war, especially against Russia.

On the other hand, he knew what the fast rise of power could do to a nation. It made them greedy, and they felt invincible, which made them make stupid mistakes. He had a strong feeling Russia would slip up, but even combined the world was still too weak to stop their enemy's invasions. They had little chance.

"Good evening, chaps," England interrupted his thoughts as the Brit sat down, "I believe you all know why we asked you all here, so I will skip the formalities and just cut to the chase; You've all seen the video, I take it."

Everyone nodded, except for Italy, who tilted his head in confusion, "What video?"

German mentally face palmed as he saw England stiffen a little, "Italy was under invasion when we were sent the messages, and he's been without power since.

"Sorry," Italy shrugged as he finally caught the hint, for once.

"It's quite alright," England broke out of his shock, "I supposed we should show him…"

"Non, Angleterre," France interrupted, remembering his friend's first reaction to the video of the twins branding, "Germany, I trust that you can show it to him afterward?"

"Of course," he immediately responded.

The Brit nodded to no one in particular, "Thank you," he shook a little as he pulled out a few papers from a bag on the table, "Regardless, I'm sure you know, Italy, of the current situation regarding Russia."

The Italian nodded.

England dropped a small manila folder on the table in front of his fellow nations, "This folder contains the total death count approximated for France, myself, and any others we have fought with since the beginning of this war. As you will see, just ours is more than the total European death count for the last World War, and this number doesn't even count in your battles, or losses in Africa, Asia, or the Americas."

"This is tragdic and all," China put down the papers, "But what can we do? We aren't any stronger than you are, aru."

"We realize this, mon ami," France stopped him, "But we have estimated that if we work together, our combined forces will be even larger than Russia's."

"Is that so?" Prussia interrupted, "By what? A thousand? Ten? That isn't enough to win a war."

"But it's a better chance than we have now," England insisted, "On our own, we don't stand a chance."

"Since when do we ever work well together, aru?" China mentioned with a shrug.

France sighed, "If you remember China, we normally do win."

"Yes, but without America-san, do we really stand a chance, aru?"

"We have too, Japan," England turned and didn't look at them, "Is that what we did before Spain decided the earth was round? No, we powered on. We're bloody Eurasia! We can't rely on the people we dragged into our wars in the first place."

"I was not hear at that time," Japan was unfazed, "But I do understand what you are saying. Chivalry, honor, defending the weak. But that was then, Britian, and this is now. I realize that you want to save your brothers but-"

"The boys have nothing to do with this," England pressed, "This is a world crisis, not just mine."

"We are well aware of that," German put a hand on his chin, "But we are in no shape to form a crazy plan to stop all this chaos, alliance or not. I am out."

"As is the awesome me," Prussia stood.

"I cannot fight, I am out as well," Japan bowed.

"I am very sorry, aru," China patted the Brit's shoulder, "I can't take the risk."

"I…" Italy frowned, "I want to help you Mr. England, but I… just can't. I'm too weak at this point…" he shook his head as he stood, "But wait a little while, I'm sure in a little while, I'll be even more angry with Russia and I won't even hesitate!"

England smiled sadly, "Thank you, Italy. That means a lot to me. But I'm angry enough, so I can't wait anymore."

"He tired," France commented, watching the Englishman leave, "You haven't been up to date with world events recently, so I will tell you before Germany shows you the video," he shocked the nations by copying the other man's tired smiled, "Russia has our boys. He took the twins away from us. And even little Sealand. Russia took our little brothers; we are quite angry, and quite tired. We aren't ready to wait."

"France-"

"Francis," he corrected, "Russia's stripping the nations he captures of their identities. We are just as captured as they are, so we've done the same. I am now Francis, he is now Arthur. Two completely different people, who are not nations," he blew a kiss before he left, "It is a good feeling to be free of the responsibilities of nations and to be free to worry our lives away, non?"


	7. END OF ACT 1: Parts 16-17

…_.Part 16: Rations….._

_It's difficult to believe that people are still starving in this country because food isn't available._

_Ronald Reagan_

…_.._

A load bang and a fair bit of swearing came before the prison door opened.

"Stupid little…" a guard growled as he threw a bag on the ground before the nations, "Chow time, dogs. Enjoy it."

Roderich waited till the guard left before he opened the burlap bag. After undoing the thin rope around it, the Austrian scrunched up his nose and pulled out the food.

Their meal wasn't exactly edible, but it was food. Slightly moldy cheese, stale bread, and a small canteen of water was all that they were given to share, "This is disgusting," Roderich commented indignantly.

"Its prison rations," Alfred took Peter off his lap, placed the sleeping boy into Lovi's arms, and slowly forced his stiff, healing boy over to them, "Expected, but unnecessary. We're their only prisoners; they don't need to ration supplies."

"They're just that mean," Matt remarked as he too scooted over and picked up the cheese, "But this really isn't that bad a meal."

Lovino laughed morbidly, "Oh really? Enlighten us, oh wise maple bastard."

"In my papa's home," the Canadian mused as he picked some mold off the dairy product, "There are some very expensive cheeses that are better the longer you let them mold over. I'm sure if we just pick off the top layer, it'll be fine. And stale bread isn't that horrible if you think about it. It's just a little different than what we're used to."

Alfred laughed, "See Lovi! It may not be pasta, but it's better than nothing!"

The Italian glared silently. "I think we should portion it," Elizabeta said, looking over how much they were given, "There isn't much, but I think that we should have a system for who gets how much."

"That's a good idea," Roderich nodded, "Maybe by age?"

"No!" Peter woke up a bit, "It should be by how injured we are. Anyone whose hurt needs to heal."

"Calm down, kid," Lovino eased him back to sleep, "You still weak, you need your strength."

"The boy makes a point," Elizabeta said after the boy was asleep again, "So, by that idea, we know how to ration our supplies."

"Peter gets the largest, whether he likes it or not," Alfred said as he broke up the food, making a pile with a quarter of the bread and cheese, "Then Mattie," he laid aside a small portion of bread and cheese, "Then everyone else can take from the rest equally, but I think we should set some on the side for later in case-"

"And yourself?" Elizabeta interrupted, "You are hardly any better than your brother, Alfred."

"My arm isn't broke, Lizzy!" the American laughed, "I'm just a little roughed up, is all."

"You were branded," Mathieu raised an eyebrow, "You shouldn't push it any harder than I am, hero complex or not."

"I do not have a hero complex!" Alfred argued, weak voice cracking a little as his voice went higher than it had been for a while, "I'm a hero! I'm not going to deny that, but this has nothing to do with this."

"If it doesn't have anything to do with your sudden bout anorexia," his twin said sarcastically, "Than just man up, admit you're in pain, and take the damn ration!"

Alfred pointed a finger in his brother's face, "You are making this ten times more important than it needs to be, Mathieu!"

"Stop it, America you're acting like a child," Roderich pulled him away from his brother with one hand. In his haste, he forgot about the still healing brand's position just near his shoulder. The Austrian's hand pressed on were the wound was covered was covered in bandages.

Alfred held back a painfilled scream as he fell to his knees from the pressure on the raw flesh. He forced his arms to support him on hands and knees as his body automatically started to retch out whatever substance was left in his stomach from before they were captured onto the floor.

It took him a moment to register much stronger arms under his chest, much more gently this time, keeping him from crashing to the ground, slender fingers easing the bandages off his back to fix the now reopened wounds, and a slow hand keeping the hair out of his eyes as he vomited.

"Fine my ass," Mattie ran a hand threw the shaking mop of hair. He waited till his brother stopped retching, "Take deep breaths."

Alfred face was reddened in embarrassment and lack of oxygen. He panted a little bit as Elizabeta retied the bandages, "Lay him down on his side," she instructed to Roderich and Lovino, who held him up. They helped him onto his side so he could lay down.

Mathieu quickly and quietly gave out the rations and woke Peter up. He then sat by his twins head with both their now equal rations, leaned back against the wall to rest his own back, and managed to get Alfred's head to lean up against his leg, all without causing any pain to his arm, which made him do a little happy dance in his head.

"Eat," he held a small piece of bread to Alfred's mouth, "If your stomachs to weak, I can wait."

The American shook his head, still panting a little.

"Alright, I'll just wait, then," Matt stated.

"What?" Alfred questioned, but his voice was still raw and scratchy, so it was hard for him to talk very loud.

"I'm not eating until you do," the other twin replied, "But it's no big deal, I'm not that hungry anyway."

"Mattie…"

The Canadian smiled as he playfully (and lightly) flicked the blonde head in his lap, "Don't you 'Mattie', me! You'd stave for me, I'd starve for you. Simple as that."

Alfred tilted his head back a little to look into the purple eyes staring right back into his own blue, ignoring how it made his head spin slightly. The look he got told him if he didn't eat the bread, he would have it shoved into his mouth until he either had the choice of chewing and swallowing or choking and dying. So, he slowly took the stale bread and took a bite.

Meanwhile, everyone else watched in fascination as they ate from the other side of the room.

"They are… different, aren't they?" Elizabeta commented, holding back a chuckle.

"They sound so normal," Lovino whispered, "I mean, not _normal _as in sanity wise, but normally Alfred is so loud and I can barely hear Matt. Their volume is almost equal when they think no one is listening."

"They did that a lot whenever they visited England's house together," Peter said with cheese in his mouth, "Sometimes, if he was drunk enough, England would tell me stories about when he was an empire, and the colonies. He said that he didn't really understand how there could be twin countries, and that he had never heard of any relationship between nations other than a sibling one. England thought that they were special. Then again, he was pretty drunk…"

Lovino made a face, "Someone remind me to take away all the scone bastard's alcohol when we get out."

"I think England knew what he was talking about, actually," Roderich said to no one in particular, "Ever since we were brought here, I don't think they've left each other's side."

"Now that I think about it," Elizabeta agreed, "Alfred usually is the one interacting with his brother more than anyone else because Mathieu is so quiet, and I've rarely ever seen them argue of something they didn't resolve quickly. I think the only time it ever did get bad… well, Alfred _did _need a new White House, but the new one is much better."

Peter smiled tiredly, "I like it when they talk normal. I think it means they're happy, or at least content."

"I hope so," Lovino ruffled the boy's hair, "Now finish and go back to sleep."

The little micronation pouted as he finished his food.

"But, you know," Roderich mused, "England did make on point in his drunkenness."

"What?"

"I've never actually heard of identical twin nations, let alone even twin nations," the Austrian looked at the brothers, "If it wasn't for their eyes and the curls, and France messing with Matt's hair all the time, I'd say it would impossible to tell them apart if the kept their voices at this volume. It's really quite strange."

"They are rather remarkable beings," Elizabeta smiled fondly, "But it's not that surprising if you think about it. They're just extremely close brothers. That's all there is to it, so why question it?"

Everyone stopped there wondering. They finished their food and settled down, waiting for something to happen.

…_.Part 17: We all Fall Down…._

_Ring around the Rosy_

_Pocket full of posies_

_Ashes, ashes_

_We all fall down_

_-Unknown_

…_._

After about three hours of silence, the prison door opened.

"Good evening!" Smirnov smiled as he walked in to the prison, "I trust you are all feeling well." The command then stepped in the pile of sick in the middle of the room, "Oh my, I take it you are not then by this. Who am I to punish for creating such an unpleasant mess?"

No one said a word.

Smirnov sighed, "Why are you all so uncooperative?" He looked around the room at the nations, "Well, someone must be punished," he reached down and roughly pulled Peter away from a startled Italian, "I suppose my little friend will do-"

"No, wait," Alfred struggled to get his head up off of his surprised brother's lap.

The commander smiled, "Oh? Do you have something to say, boy?"

"Leave him alone," he growled, "Do whatever you want to do to me, I don't care, just leave them out of it."

"Gladly," Smirnov laughed and grabbed him by the hair to make him look at his face, "I was hoping I would get the chance to crush that burning fire your eyes. It will be an honor to break you, boy."

"America!" Mathieu cried as he leapt forward, ignoring the pain in his arm from his sudden movement.

Smirnov kicked the Canadian in the gut to silence him, "Oh, do shut up. I don't feel like changing my mind again."

"It's alright, Mattie," Alfred panted, looking down with a sad smile to his twin, "Don't worry so much, bro."

The commander punched him, forcing the American to the ground roughly. Peter and Elizabeta almost screamed, but they were held back by the horrified nations next to them.

Matt watched in absolute terror as Smirnov started to drag his twin out of the room by his forearm. He couldn't help but call out his name over and over again, struggling to go after them, though he couldn't move except in a desperate leap towards them, and in a slower, shaky crawl for the door.

Alfred struggled a bit against the man's grip on his arm, but at most all but allowed him to pull him away. He reached out a hand as he walked backwards out the door.

The Canadian's hand was just inches away from his twin's as he leaned forward to try and pull him back. In his desperation, he didn't even register his arm slipping out of his sling.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Roderich rapidly went to grab Matt from causing himself or his brother anymore harm and Smirnov pulled Alfred out roughly, slamming the door hard, and cutting off the brother's grip.

Mathieu's hand hit the door, instead of Alfred's hand. He leaned against the cold metal by that one hand, the other hanging by his side, motionless and dangling. He sobbed as his knees gave out and he fell against the door.

"No…" he shook his head, hair falling down his face as he stared at the ground, "No…"

Roderich had a grip on his good arm as he knelt down next to him. He didn't know what to say to the boy, so he just laid a hand on Matt's back as he shook with fits and looked to the others with panic.

Elizabeta was quick to his side, taking Matt into her arms and shushing him quietly. Lovino pulled out bandages from the hole in the wall and brought them to Roderich so he could make another sling, then he picked up Peter and held him silently with the boy's face in his shirt so that he wouldn't see the sudden break down of North America.

Matt allow the Hungarian to hold him and fuss over him, but his eyes kept right on the door. His eyes were wide and red around the edges, and his face was wet.

"America…" he whispered to midair, "Don't leave me, please…"

"Shh…" Elizabeta petted his head, "It's alright. He'll be fine, he's a strong boy, he'll be fine."

"We're all going to die, aren't we?"

"No, Mathieu!" she shook his good shoulder, "You can't think like that!"

"But it's true," he bit his lip to hold back a sob, "T-This war is spreading death and pain like… like…. Like some kind of _plague_. And the people who started it act like it's some kind of _game_. They take life for granted, like everything is their own personal play thing. We're all gonna die… there is _nothing _we can do to stop it."

Everyone was silent, as they let the horrible reality of the quietly crying Canadian's words sink into their minds. They did nothing but pray to any and all of the gods they could think of, hoping that one of them was listening and cared enough to save a world that had all but crashed into a hell where no one could rise out of the ashes.

…_._

…_._

…_._

…_._

_END_

_OF ACT_

_1_

…_._

…_._

…_._

_NEXT ACT:_

_BROKEN_

…_._

…_._

_A/N FOR ACT ONE:_

**Well, that's Act 1: CAPTURED. I want to apologize for any issues in my overall story, if you noticed any issues in it, I would love to hear about it so I can improve. I hope you all enjoyed (or at least didn't die from my lack of back-bone for torture) the beginning of 'We All Fall Down'. I hope my title was explained in the last part, but I don't like how it turned out, so I'll elaborate a little on some of the themes in this story, such as the title and other things;**

**-'Ring a Ring o' Roses' (better known in America as 'Ring-Around-the-Rosie') began to appear among the English population around the 1790s to the same tune we know today. Many theorists speculate that the children's tune was about the plague, though many call that idea simply urban legend. The line 'we all fall down' is thought to be the equivalent of the many dead bodies falling to the ground. I felt that though the true meaning isn't completely justified as a song of death, that the song's speculated meaning and the controversy around it gave a good preview to the story. It means that though the nations have a strong feeling of pain and suffering, they still hold firm to the belief that they still have a chance of a happy ending.**

**-If the story line seems rushed, or odd at points, I must apologize. I space out a fair bit, and I hardly notice.**

**-I want to make it clear know rather than later that this story has what I like to call a neutral ending. I actually (for once) have a good idea where the story is going, and I have a sequel planned because were my brain wants to end this story leaves questions in my mind, so I figure it will confuse you even more. **

**-The next Act (if the title and the cliff hanger wasn't enough to tell you) has a LOT of blood, gore, cursing, torture, and such, as well as implied rape. Despite my mind being abnormally hesitant to do any writing like that, I keep reminding myself that it's nothing you wouldn't see in a PG-13 movie these days. I also realize that that may be a bit of a spoiler, but I have written a story before with similar themes, and I got several reviews complaining that I shouldn't be killing their favorite characters and I should have warned people and stuff like that. I actually stopped the story because I lost so many reviewers. **

**I hope you enjoy the story, and continue to read and review, and I really hope, most importantly, that you enjoy the fruits of my labor and follow the nations through their adventures.**

**God bless, and have a great day!**

**~DanelleSepthon **


	8. Act 2: Parts 1-2

_Act 2: BROKEN_

…_.Part 1: Plans ….._

_Never deprive someone of hope; it might be all they have._

_H. Jackson Brown, Jr._

…

Five weeks.

Roderich sighed as he watched the others sleep. It had been five weeks according to Toris since Alfred was taken away. He wouldn't tell them what was happening to the American, because every time they asked, they were always meet with a sad shake of the head and a brief 'I don't know' before he would leave.

It seemed a bit too calm in their prison without the smiling boy with his ever bright look on life, but not much had really changed.

Peter had gone back to a semi-annoying little squirt, but Roderich could tell he was only acting like that to keep their minds off of their friend. It was common knowledge among them that if they heard anyone crying at night, they shouldn't worry because Peter wouldn't let anyone comfort him. It saddened the Austrian infinitely to know the little boy he had actually had become a bit fond would never be the same bubbly child he had been before Russia's invasions.

Lovino was still the same old cold, cruel Lovino he always was, but he seemed to have opened up a bit more to others. If anyone was going to comfort Peter, it was normal him. Granted, he did so silently, but Roderich had more than once woken up in the night to see the Italian holding a gently sobbing boy in his arms, rocking him back and forth.

Elizabeta had almost become a mother to them all (the boys joked around that Roderich was almost their dad by this point, though the Austrian would just scoff them off with a smile). Roderich was quite proud to see the rough tomboy he had fallen for as a child had grown into a lovely lady. She just worked so well in such a time of turmoil, the Austrian was simply blown away.

Mathieu… was another story. The Canadian had under gone a change since his brother was sent away for torture, and Roderich wasn't really sure if it was for better or worse. With the sudden lack of American in the air, Matt took on something imilar his brother's 'hero' role, but it was more subtle and hesitant. He gave his opinions, spoke his mind, and, shockingly, made his presence known. His voice was still calm and subtle, but it had a noticeably louder volume to it. Long gone were the days Mathieu was invisible. He took was the one edging them to keep going; to hope. But Roderich worried that this seemingly good change was only coming out because the trauma that came with seeing his ever tough and powerful twin dragged away against his will. Roderich wondered just what would happen when Alfred did come back, and they would have _two _loud North American's.

The pianist himself didn't feel that he changed to much. He still had Mariazell and he still wore glasses despite Mathieu telling him daily that they were going to be broken any day. He still loved Elizabeta, he still wasn't going to call Peter a nation (even if his respect for the boy had grown immensely, he didn't want him to go through the pains of being a nation), he still found Italy to be ten times easier to handle than Lovino (Italy would always be his little Chibitalia, but he somehow could except Lovi as a brother of some sorts), and his fingers still ached for the familiar feel of a piano and the music. Roderich was still Roderich, and Roderich was still Austria.

Still, Elizabeta kept telling him that he was a different, better man, but Roderich didn't see how. If he asked he to elaborate, the Hungarian would just laugh (he missed hearing her laugh that sounded like the most beautiful music he had ever heard, but such laughs were so rare anymore) and she'd kiss him on the cheek, like he never even asked a question.

The Austrian looked over to others, huddling against each other for warmth.

Roderich had long since forced Mathieu into wearing what was left of his own, once very expensive, shirt simply to try and keep infection and fever away from his healing wound. It was too big on him, but it was all they had.

The Canadian laid up against the wall with Peter on his lap, using the billowy fabric of the shirt as a pillow and blanket. Lovino was next to them, holding Peter's hand, with his head leaning down towards the floor. Elizabeta lay next to Roderich, leaning her head on his shoulder. The Austrian himself had an arm around her and he rested his chin in her hair.

It still amazed him that they could sleep so calmly in a place like this. It was like they had grown comfortable in this hell on earth, or they were content with being lambs for the slaughter. It was worry some to him, but what was he to do? No one listened to Roderich much, and if they were calm, why shouldn't he be?

The Austrian leaned back and brushed some hair from Elizabeta's face. He hoped this would end soon, they all needed a break.

Maybe when they got out, they should have a party. Nothing big, just the six of them. He would provide music, Elizabeta could provide the location, Lovi could bring pasta and pizza, and he was sure the twins and Peter would have no trouble procuring some form of entertainment for them. He could just imagine them back at Elizabeta's home, playing around and being nothing but happy.

Roderich smiled to himself at the thought of the people around him happy and safe once more, longing for that moment when they would all be alright.

Of course, he would never admit that.

…_.Part 2: Quashed …._

_You have not converted a man because you have silenced him._

_John Morley_

…_._

Russia flipped his scarf around his neck, "So this is the base, da?" A soldier helped him off the helicopter.

Commander Smirnov met him by the landing pad, arms folded and smiling, "Greetings, comrade Russia!"

They saluted each other, "You have done well with this area, Commander Smirnov," Russia congratulated, "I can see the effort you have put into turning the Canadian lands into a force to be reckoned with. I and your people both commend you."

"Thank you, comrade," Smirnov smiled, "Your words are much too kind."

"But well deserved," Russia returned the smile, "May I trouble you for a tour of your base? My boss is quite interested in what you have done here, but he is much too busy to come himself."

"Of course!" the commander laughed as he started to leave the other off the pad, "I believe I have some things you might be interested in, I will give you a brief look around before you depart."

"Wonderful," he replied as they headed down the once public road.

"And what is that?" Russia pointed to house that was now swarming with armed men.

Smirnov chuckled, "That is our soldier quarters. It was probably a civilian home, but residence had evacuated. There was a fair supply of provisions in its cellar, so we have been very well off."

Russia nodded as they went on, briefly taking in the coffee shop on its other side, but not finding anything interesting in it, he didn't ask anything about it.

Smirnov made idle chat as he led the large Russian man to the old school, "This is our main building."

"Impressive," Russia nodded.

"It is," he smiled as he opened the door, "The building has been serving as our storage center, as well as a medical area, extra houses, and my own personal quarters. We estimate there are about 50 rooms total on the main floor and the basement, which has been serving a secure holding cell for our prisoners."

"How are they, as you mention it?" Russia questioned as they walked the halls.

Smirnov raised an eyebrow, "They are quite rebellious, and do not obey commands well. Is there a reason you asked?"

"I simply wished to how much progress they are making in learning to obey Mother Russia," he smiled, "I hope that they can get out of this phase with as few injuries as possible so I can put them straight to work after I have won, but I implore you to take whatever steps you find necessary."

"They are a stubborn lot, but I have methods," Smirnov grinned, leading him to a door that looked something like a bathroom, "Come, I'll show you how much one change a few weeks can bring about in a person."

Russia followed him in to the bathroom, and was caught off guard by a sudden waft of copper. The stalls that were probably in the room at one point were removed, but the tile and sinks were left in. It was dim, and Smirnov hadn't turned the lights on yet.

"This one is a difficult case," the commander spoke as he looked for a light switch, "I had to take extreme measures to subdue him, but I think I succeeded in making him kneel to our power, don't you?"

The lights flashed on, and Russia found the source of the smell.

The once proud, bright, and promising nation of America, whom he had the honor of calling his worst enemy and greatest rival, lay shackled, chained, and naked, arms tied to the wall by hand cuffs that looked too big on his boney wrist. His figure was coated in blood and sores, a deep cuts on his forehead wept scarlet, and his once deep blue eyes were glassy and tired. His hair had lost its shine and was limp and over grown. The American looked beyond physically naked, his pride gone as well as his garments.

When Russia looked to his former rival, the boy just weakly raised his head and registered him with unseeing eyes before he looked back at the ground.

"We've been using this room as a 'retraining' area as it already has drains so it's easier to clean," Smirnov explained as he pulled a knife from his belt and walked over to America, "We have had so much fun in this room haven't we boy?"

The American gave no answer, even as the knife came dangerously close to his neck.

"Come now," the commander mocked, signature smile in place, "Won't the little dog speak for our guest?"

He just breathed deeply, a little blood dripping down his chin as he coughed a little.

"Nothing to say?" Smirnov asked before turning to Russia "That's a good thing, da?"

"What is?" Russia's eyes didn't turn from America's glassy ones.

"I've done exactly what you ordered me too, Russia," he smiled, "I'm making all of the nations understand that you are in charge. They will follow your every order with absolute loyalty and without question. They will have no fear, because I have shown them enough fear in this room to last them a life time. They will have no hope, because I've killed such thoughts. They will have no pride, because they will know our power can do to them whatever we wish."

Russia walked over to his old rival, gently looking him over (he tried to ignore the fact that he was naked), taking in the bruises and other strange marks "He's been raped."

"Not by myself, I will assure you," Smirnov stepped back and replaced his knife then started examining his appearance in the bathroom mirror like their wasn't a half dead man in the room with him, "I let several of my men do what they wanted with him, I didn't keep track over their preferred form of torture."

"And what exactly does this accomplish?" the Russian commented, voice calm without emotion.

"Simple," Smirnov smiled, "He no longer has the ability to say anything against Russia, nor to I believe he ever will again."

Before he could even register what he was doing, he forced America's mouth open, not paying any heed to gentleness (though the American didn't even struggle or show any emotion to the intrusion in his mouth). He sighed inwardly as he saw he still had his tongue and there was nothing physically obstructing his esophagus.

"We haven't physically done anything to his voice," Smirnov answered his unspoken question as he leaned over to see what his nation was looking at, "I've simply insured that he will never willing voice his thoughts."

Russia simply put a hand under the boy's chin and forced him to look up at him. Purple met blue, and a whole history of hate and anger flew between them. Before he even thought about it, Russia found himself punching America in the stomach over and over again.

When his anger subsided, he grabbed the American by the hair and roughly pulled his head up, "As you once said to your rival, 'I remember when you were so big.'" With that he slammed his head against the tile, leaving a small red stain on the white squares as the boy slumped forward.

He felt slightly bad for his actions a second later, but not much. Russia let a smirk go back on to his face as he stood, smearing a little blood on his rival's face as he did.

Russia turned to Smirnov with a smile, "Accept my apology, but I do believe I got a bit carried away. I wish for you to use this form of 'retraining' as a last resort, if you would, Commander. If anyone got wind of our proud nation using rape as a means of control, we would lose what little support we have left. But if they refuse to follow through any other ways, torture is perfectly okay with me."

"I am glad to hear this," Smirnov replied.

"Oh, and I think our little friend here has had enough of your treatment, da?" Russia said as he went to the door, "Maybe it would be a good idea to let your other prisoners learn what disobedience results in."

"I agree, comrade," Smirnov led him out of the room, turning off the light and closing the door, "I will have my men take him back to the cell as soon as they can."

Russia bid fair well to the commander as he left the building and boarded his helicopter, "Goodbye, Smirnov. You have done the impossible and I thank you for such."

"What miracle did I do, comrade?"

"You have quashed the fiery, untamable beast known as the American spirit."

…..

…..

…..

…..

_This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last._

_Oscar Wilde_

…..


	9. Part 3-5

…_.Part 3: Unnecessary Acts of Mercy …._

_Love has its place, as does hate. Peace has its place, as does war. Mercy has its place, as do cruelty and revenge._

_Meir Kahane_

…_._

"You there!" Smirnov called out as soon Russia was gone, "Take the dog down stairs."

The guard was startled by the quick order, but he went into the bathroom anyway.

He was a bit more hesitant to follow the order (he still couldn't get the image of the little boy bleeding out in his arms). He didn't understand how the highly more intelligent men around him didn't see how the suffering of fellow beings was completely unnecessary. The guard had no say in how things were run, but he knew that torture, rape, and such things were wrong and evil in all aspects. After the incident with the little child, he soon found himself questioning orders he before would have followed without thought.

The guard was probably the only man in the base who had chosen not to take a swing at the boy, and it showed. He knew he was brutally beaten, and he had to be freezing.

The guard knelt down on one knee to look at the nations face. There were bruises in the shape of fingers on his chin from someone gripping it harshly.

Dead eyes looked at him as he lifted up his chin. It was an unsettling sight, to see someone so _uncaring _about what was going on around them, but at the same time, he could see the fear a single touch brought the boy.

He took off his thick uniform jacket and wrapped it around the boy. It was thankfully long enough to cover him enough and thick enough to provide a little warmth. The American flinched a little, no expecting the fabric to come in contact with his skin, but he let the guard ease his hands out of the cuffs.

"Do you think you can stand?" the guard asked.

He rubbed his wrists slightly, eyes remaining in a blank stare.

The guard sighed, "I'll take that as a no." He gently pulled him up off the ground and put him in his arms.

He popped his head outside the door and looked to see if anyone was watching. The guard really didn't want a lecture on how prisoners deserved no pity, and the fast he could get the boy to his cell, the faster he could get a clean coat.

The last time he showed mercy to one of the prisoners, his superiors were quite upset with him. They told him that mercy was not meant to have any role in war. He was a fool to think of their prisoners as anything other than dogs, and that his actions were uncalled for.

Still, what was so wrong about offering a bit of comfort to a child, who probably had little idea why he was there in the first place? Though his actions may be uncalled for, if no one else was going to think about what they were doing, then his acts of mercy were far from unnecessary.

As soon as he saw no one in the hall, he quickly walked towards the stairs to the basement. If he could get to the door just between shifts, he might be able to slip the boy in unseen.

Suddenly, he felt a cough and a shudder against his chest and a sudden wet, stickiness.

"Shit," he said as his pace quickened, "You are _not _allowed to bleed to death. Do you understand?"

The American shook a little as he limply raised his head, blood pooling out of his mouth, and looked at the guard with a stupid, confused look.

He thanked God when he reached the stairs and cleared them in no time flat. The guard saw that there was no one by the door or anywhere near by, so he inwardly cheered his good fortune.

"You tell no one where you got that coat, da?" he said as he opened the door, "Good luck… comrade." With that he quickly laid the boy inside the cell and left to try and find a new uniform before anyone noticed.

…_.Part 4: I Love You, Too …._

_Brothers don't necessarily have to say anything to each other - they can sit in a room and be together and just be completely comfortable with each other._

_Leonardo DiCaprio_

…_.._

The nations were startled by intrusion in the room.

"AMERICA!" Mathieu practically screamed as he launched himself off of the ground and wrapped his arms around his twin.

"Mathieu!" Roderich warned him as he and the others went to them, "Don't strain your arm!"

The Canadian ignored him and buried his face in the thick coat around Alfred, "Oh my God, I thought you were dead," he sobbed, "I thought you weren't coming back and you left me! I missed you so much, bro! Thank God… Alfred?"

The American had been silent, eyes clenched shut, struggling to stay up right since his brother embraced him. His face grew paler as he panted, and he was sweating.

"Alfred?" Matt called, taking his shoulders by arm's length and shaking his drooping form, "Alfred, what's wrong? Ha, Alfred this isn't funny. This isn't the time for jokes, bro, open your eyes… Talk to me America, please!"

Lovino grabbed the Canadian around the back and pulled him off of his dying twin, "Call down, maple bastardo!"

"Let me go!" Matt struggled, "He can't die! He _can't _die!"

Roderich and Elizabeta managed to lean Alfred against the wall. The Austrian started to take off the coat, but, seeing as he was naked and not that injured as he was ill, he simply managed his arms through the too big coat and zipped it up all the way.

"He has a bad fever," Elizabeta choose not to comment on the obvious case of brutal sexual torture and worse, "We need to bring it down now."

Mathieu broken off of the Italian holding him back (despite popular belief, he was just as strong as his brother even if he didn't show it). He fell to the ground and stumbled to his twin's side, "Alfred," he cried, "No, you… you can't die!"

The Canadian forgot to be quiet in his panic, voice growing quite loud. Alfred flinched at the volume, trying to get away from the scary sounds.

"A-Alfred," Mathieu stopped, realizing his error and forcing his voice back down to the whisper it had been for most of his life, "What's wrong with you- Wait you just can't see me! That's it," he took a sharp intake of breathe and laughed, wanting it to be true though he had little faith in such a thing, "I-I'll get your glasses, and then you'll be fine."

"Mathieu-"

"SHUT UP!" he screamed as he got his brother's glasses out from the hole in the wall, "That's all it is! It has to be!"

He sat down next to Alfred and put a hand behind his head. He gently laid the familiar wire frames on his face and pushed them up the bridge of his nose, "There!" he sighed quietly, "Now open your eyes, bro, we need to talk. You've been gone for five weeks, Al, that's almost a month! Did you miss me? I missed you. The others are great, but I really wanted you back. It feels weird when you aren't here, isn't that strange? I feel like half of me is gone when you aren't here. It must be a North American thing, right? Ha, I must sound so stupid going on like this, but you can't die on me Alfred! You can't! We're the North American _twins_! That means two! I can't be a twin on my own, and I love having a brother, and I don't want you to leave me like Papa, or England, or all the other people who don't see me…"

Elizabeta knelt down sadly next to him and put a hand on his back, "Mathieu. It's alright; your brother is going to live."

"How do you know?" Matt did look away from the pale face in his hands as he whispered, "Look at him! What else could make him like this?"

"…" the Hungarian hesitated to respond to the desperate Canadian's question.

Roderich silently brushed her aside, "Calm down, Peter, I can handle this," he kissed her cheek as she left. Elizabeta pulled Peter onto her lap and tried to explain what happened to him and Lovino as best as she could between her own silent sobs.

"Mathieu," Roderich tried his best to sound calm and comforting.

The Canadian didn't turn, only started to play with his unresponsive twin's hair, "What, Rody?"

He ignored the comment, "I need to see your brother."

"It's just a fever," Matt shook his head, "I can take care of him, I can do it."

"Matt…" the Austrian put one hand out to the jacket around Alfred's body.

Matt pulled his twin away from him and into his chest, glaring at the Austrian, "Don't touch him!"

"Let me show you why he's like this, Mathieu," Roderich urged gently, putting out his hand, "If you want what's best for your brother, please let me help him, then you can coddle him all you want."

Mathieu looked at him hesitantly, but eventually moved his twin to lean back against his chest.

Roderich gently unzipped the jacket just enough to let the Canadian see the obvious bruises. He gently brushed his hand over Matt's arm as the purple eyes grew wide and finally looked to the Austrian, "W-Wha…"

"Mathieu," Roderich said gravely, "You're an intelligent boy. I'm sure you can identify rape when you see it."

"I…" the Canadian looked down to Alfred's prone, shaking figure, "Oh, America…" He kissed his forehead gently, an action that registered in the American's head, making his eyes fly open and braced himself as his panting increased.

"I'm sorry," Matt breathed, not expecting such a reaction. He quickly zipped the jacket back up and opened Roderich's coat around his own shoulders so that his brother lay against his bare chest and covered with the rich purple fabric as a blanket. He looked up to Roderich, "Is this fine?"

The Austrian smiled fondly and nodded, gently running a hand over both twins' arm, "I need to get something. Hold on for a few seconds."

Mathieu brushed Alfred's shaking head, "I'm so sorry," he soothed when Roderich was gone, "I'm not going to hurt you, bro. And I swear, _no one_ is _ever _goingto hurt you like _this_ again as long as I live." He put two fingers under Alfred's chin and eased his milky blue gaze up to his own purple, "You saved me so many times, Al, now it's my turn to save you."

The American hesitated for a second, seemingly trying to decipher his twin's words as if they were confusing to his blurry mind. It took him a little while, but he hesitantly settled against Matt's chest with minor effort on his part and major assistance from the other. Once he was settled down, Matt started to play with his hair. He smiled a little as Alfred made a slight noise of complaint when his hand went over Nantucket.

Roderich soon returned to their side and laid a cool, wet cloth on Alfred's forehead, brushing some of blonde strands away from his eyes, "Make sure that stays on him," he told Matt, "It will cool his temperature down and help with his fever."

"Roderich…" Matt stopped him before he left to go to Elizabeta and the boys, "W-Why isn't he talking?" he chuckled, sadly, "I've never heard him this quiet since we were little colonies."

"Yes, it is strange," Roderich smiled regretfully, "I think its shock, or, as horrible as it sounds, Smirnov may have planned it. If you think about it, nothing would break someone worse than taking away something they love. And well… our Alfred did love to talk."

"No, _does_," Matt shook his head, and smiled back positively, "He's gonna get over this. Once we're out of here, I'm gonna stuff him full of burgers and fries, take him to a baseball game, get him _more _burgers, than were gonna get England and France and Peter, too (hell you and the others can come too), and we're going to have a _huge _dinner with all his favorite foods and we'll watch Captain America till he can't help but say _something."_

The Austrian sighed and clapped him on the shoulder, "If you can get that to happen, Mathieu, I'll be playing the Star - Spangled Banner till you're both singing along." He turned to go.

"Austria?" Matt stopped him one more time.

Roderich turned, "Yes?"

"Thank you," Mathieu and looked up at him, resting his chin in his brother's hair, "For everything. We both owe you our lives a hundred times over."

"Don't thank me yet, Canada," Roderich chuckled. He flicked the top of Matt's sling, "Rest that arm, heal, and, when we're all out of this hell, and free as the wind, then I'll take ten pounds of syrup and beer, plus a few Mounties guarding my door to keep everyone out while I get drunk beyond all proportions."

That actually made the Canadian laugh (they both swore they saw a brief smile come and go on Alfred's face, but it was hard to tell), "I'll do that," Matt said, "It's a promise."

After Roderich left, and the brothers were as alone as they could get in the cell, Alfred blinked a few times, fighting to keep from closing his eyes and falling asleep.

Mathieu moved his hand from his hair and took his right hand, "You can rest, Al. You've earned a nice, long sleep."

Alfred shook his head weakly.

"Why not, bro?" Matt gently squeezed the hand, "Even heroes need their power naps."

The American shook a little as he tilted his head back to look at him. Matt took in the clouded, abnormally quiet eyes, understanding immediately what he wanted. _I'm scared_, it said, _Just hold me and keep talking to me so I know you're really here. I missed you too bro._

Matt sighed, "Alright, Al, you win," he put a hand on his head and tilted it back, "Lean back, bro. Relax, at least. It's not like I plan on going anywhere."

Alfred did lean back, mind slowly growing back to a semi-sober state, remembering his brother's injured arm and trying to lean more on Matt's other side. He slowly got his hand over to the sling on Matt's arm and started to play with the fabric clumsily.

_How's your arm? _Was the implied question, which Matt realized quickly.

"It's a lot better," he said, "It's a little numb, but nothing that bad as long as I don't move it too much."

Alfred moved his hand from the sling to Matt's bad hand as lightly as he could. The Canadian took it for a simple _Don't strain yourself._

"I won't," he chuckled, "I need to worry about you right now, so I can't have everyone worrying about me."

The American squeezed the hand slightly.

"I love you too, Al."


	10. Part 6-8

…_.Part 6: Rum ..._

_I have taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me._

_Winston Churchill_

…_._

"Italy?"

He took a swig of his drink, ignoring the voice.

"Veneziano."

It was more of an order that time, but the Italian just took a deeper swig.

"You need to stop, Italy. This isn't healthy."

He put down the glass, "And my brother is any healthier?" he slurred, looking the German in the eye, drunkenly.

"Italy…" Germany sighed, "Drinking yourself to death will do nothing for him."

"I don't care!" the Italian growled, nursing the rum in his hands, "I can't do _anything _anyway!"

Germany sighed, seeing he wasn't going to get anywhere with his friend skunk drunk on British booze.

They were still stuck in Britain, as it was currently the safest place to be and their own homes were under lockdown at the moment. But, sadly, the advantage of safety also came with the advantage of easy access to the choice drunk-maker of the British; rum. Italy was obviously an angry drunk, and it was a good time to be.

He had watched the video of the twins branding. Italy was nothing short of horrified by it, but his first worry was his big brother.

Germany assured him that Romano wasn't in the prison until the day after, and that Lithuania had told them the twins wounds healed well, but he still was upset over the chance that his was hurt (of course, the likely hood was rather high, but the German would rather not think of that at the moment).

Of course, Germany could see where Italy's fears were coming from; He was sure if he was captured, his bruder would be doing the same thing. But that was just what Prussia did best, drinking was his _art_. But Italy could do more than get drunk (normally he at least _tried _to do something) and by God if he was going to let him waste away in an English pub!

"Italy, put down the alcohol, pay the nice man, and we're leaving," he ordered the brown hair man next to him as he stood.

"No," the Italian went to order another drink.

Germany went to grab the glass from the Italian's hand, but Italy just slapped him calmly, picked up his drink, and started to walk, "Wanna be a meanie, eh?" Italy slurred as he walked through the door, "Fine, I'll just go to a different place."

The German quickly changed tactics, this time successfully grabbing the Italian by the waist and tossing him over his shoulders. He threw the bartender a few extra dollars and gave him a brief apology as he dragged Italy out.

"Put me down, Germany!" he screamed, "Put me down now!"

"Not until your sober, Italy," Germany sighed as he went outside and hailed a cab.

"Please just put me down!" Italy started to kick.

Germany realized cabby on the planet would be picking them up anytime soon, so he started walking to their hotel, "Calm down, Italy."

"I will not calm down!" he cried, "Put me down, Germany!"

It took Germany about two hours to clear the five blocks to get to their hotel ten blocks down. He silently thanked himself for forcing himself to over exercise as he swiftly took Italy up to their room.

He tossed the Italian in the shower, "You smell like rum," he said, "Shower."

Italy was about to argue, but, through a brief moment of sobriety, he closed the door, cutting off Germany's line of vision.

The German sighed to himself and sat on the bed as the water started running. He wished he could do something to ease his little Italy's mind, but his hands were tied.

He couldn't do much with out his national standing, and if he used that, then his whole nation would be dragged out of invasion to a full-fledged World War. Still, maybe he could try and send none war goods to England and France. At least it could help them a little, and he wouldn't be directly involved in the war effort.

As he thought about it, the idea reminded him of someone.

Yes, America did that too, during WWI and II. Of course, he _was _still attacked both times, despite his neutrality. And the western nation came close to a major treat against his southern states as well. But America did turn out well in the end. But a nagging thought entered his mind.

America was the one who needed saving.

He and his brother, who helped them even when they refused to help them, were in danger. So was Britain's other brother, Sealand, who was much too young to be captured, and Austria and Hungary were as well. And, of course, Italy's big brother (as annoying as Romano could be) was in just as much danger. They were all in need, and they couldn't do anything for them.

"Germany?" a voice came from the bathroom.

"Yes, Italy?" he said without looking at him, he could sense he was at least a little bit more sober.

The brown haired Italian sat down on the bed beside him, "'m sorry, Germany," he mumbled, leaning his head on his shoulder.

"It's alright," Germany brushed his hair, ignoring the smell of rum drawing up from his neck, "I don't blame you for wanting a break."

"Do you think he's going to be alright?" Italy asked, with a little bit of a slur.

"Well, he is Italian," Germany hesitated, than gave a rare smile, "So I think it's the others you have to worry about."

Italy smiled, "Ve~! Germany, you're so mean!"

"I know," Germany chuckled, "Why don't you sleep?"

"Sleep with me?" he asked, sitting back.

Now, if anyone else asked him that, Germany would either punch them, or think they were perverts, but this _was _Italy, and he wasn't just _anybody else_. So, Germany layed down next to his Italian and let himself be used as a human pillow, simply taking in the distinct smell of rum, pasta, and salty tears.

…_.Part 7: Lies …._

_Reality is never as bad as a nightmare, as the mental tortures we inflict on ourselves._

_Sammy Davis, Jr._

…

_Don't say anything. _

It had become his mantra for all those months.

_Just don't say anything, and you'll be alright._

As long as he remembered that one simple rule, he would be safe. He would be able to see his brother again, he would be able to go home, he would be alright if he just _stayed quiet_.

_Don't try to stop them, don't struggle._

He knew from just one brutal attack that fighting back was pointless. He had nothing left to fight with; he was injured, weak, and victimized. He could do nothing but hope who ever attacked him would stop sooner than later, but he rarely got his wish.

_Remain calm. They like panic. _

He had to remain stoic, or it would just egg them on. He didn't want that.

_Just focus on breathing, that's all you need to do. Just. Keep. BREATHING._

"Alfred."

_Don't respond, that's what they want._

"What's wrong, Al? Wake up!"

_It's not Canada; they just want you to think that. Don't open your eyes._

"He's shaking. Something's wrong with him."

"We need to get his fever down again."

_Ignore the pain. It's not that bad, you've had worse. You can handle it._

A cold feeling reached his head forehead, but he was already freezing, so he just tried to shake it off.

"Calm down, Alfred. We need to do this."

He stop moving for a second.

_You can't struggle, they'll do worse if you struggle. Just give in, it'll be over soon. Just shut down and pretend nothing is wrong._

The coolness came back to his forehead, and he could feel someone's once hand on his head.

He flinched slightly at the touch, then, realizing his mistake, squeaked a little and tried to shakily protect himself by covering his face with his hands.

_You messed up, they're going to punish you now, America. You lost this round._

"Sh…" gentle, feminine hands brought his shaking ones down to his chest, "Calm down, Alfred. It's alright."

_Your just imaging again, you need to focus. Their just lies._

"Stop it, burger bastard, wake up!"

_Just lies._

"Please wake up, America!"

_It's not real._

"Alfred, wake up now!"

_Lies._

"Please wake up. I love you." He felt a slight pressure on his wrist, like someone gently squeezing it, but he quickly threw it off.

_All lies. Nothing but lies._

…_.Part 8: Strength …._

_The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places._

_Ernest Hemingway_

…_.._

Mathieu had woken up to an intense heat on his chest, and a subtle shaking from the form he clutched to his chest like a teddy bear.

"Alfred," he breathed, turning his twin around to see his face, "What's wrong Al? Wake up!"

Lovino, who was on watch that night, was the first to hear the commotion. The Italian woke Roderich, who groggily asked what the problem was.

"Alfred," Lovi told him quickly, "He's shaking. Something's wrong with him."

Roderich told him to wake but Elizabeta and rushed over. He laid a hand over Alfred forehead, "We need to get his fever down again," he ordered bluntly.

Matt picked up the cloth that they had used the other night and wet it again before gently placing it on Alfred's head. The feverish blonde tried moving away everything to cool fabric came towards him.

"Calm down, Alfred," he whispered kindly, "We need to do this."

He breathed a sigh of relief when Alfred stopped struggling after a minute and started to dab at his forehead. Matt eased down so that he was laying with his back against the wall on the floor. Once he was settled, Roderich was accompanied by Elizabeta and she laid the cloth on America's forehead again.

The American was calm until his brother sat beside him and moved a strand of hair from his forehead. Alfred flinched and started to breathe deeply.

Elizabeta stopped him from covering his face from his nonexistent attackers, "Sh…" she soothed, "Calm down, Alfred, it's alright."

He turned away from her, forcing her to stop petting his hair. The Hungarian was startled when he struggled to turn towards the wall, away from her.

"Stop it, burger bastard!" Lovino growled, when he saw the slight hurt on her face deep bellow the sadness, "Wake up!"

Alfred just started to hyperventilate.

"Please wake up, America," Peter bit his lip. He wasn't too scared by this sort of thing anymore, but it worried him none the less.

Roderich worriedly looked him over quickly, noticing slight convulsions, "Alfred, wake up now!" he urged, knowing it wouldn't get very far.

"Please wake up," Matt soothed gently, picking up his twins wrist and squeezing it, like Alfred had done last night, "I love you."

His heart broke a little bit when Alfred quickly took back his wrist and curled in on himself.

Mathieu watched him for a moment, looking at his hand.

After a few seconds of silence from the group, Mathieu sat back down and forced Alfred back into his arms. He gently held him down with his good arm tightly, while the other lay loosely on top of him, "Go back to sleep," he told the others, "I'll stay up with him until he wakes up."

No one moved for a second. Eventually, Lovino picked up Peter and sat a little bit away from the twins and tried to fall back to sleep. Roderich sent a begrudged Hungarian along with them, and picked up the wet rag. He handed it to Mathieu and sat down with Elizabeta again.

Matt managed to stop Alfred's struggling slightly and began dabbing at his forehead again, "Oh calm down, Al," he whispered, "Don't wake them up again. They've done enough without worrying about us so much."

Alfred stop convulsing as much, but he started panting again. Matt carefully reached over a pulled the water from their hole in the wall. He poured a small amount into his hand and put it to his brother's mouth.

He turned away from the liquid immediately, "Take a drink, Al," he soothed, "It will make you feel better, I promise."

The American shook his head.

"Just a little sip?" he managed to get Alfred's lip partially wet, "It'll help you."

Alfred flinched for a second at the cool liquid on his lips. He quickly figured out that it actually _was _water, and not some kind of poison of something. He hesitantly squinted till he found the source to be a few inches from his mouth and he started to drink like it was the last oasis on earth.

"Woah, Al, easy!" Matt chuckled quietly, "There's plenty, drink slowly."

He just ignored him and downed the water in a few seconds.

"Better?" the Canadian asked.

Alfred slowly raised his eyes, tiredly, just making sure he still was imagining things, before he nodded.

Matt ran a hand through his hair gently and picked up the cloth again, "Please don't move too much," he whispered into his twin's hair as he rest his head on the others, "I can't hold you that tightly with my bad arm, but I need to keep this on your forehead with the other."

He felt the head below his chin nod.

Alfred was still rigid and stiff, like he was ready to defend at any point, but Matt didn't try to calm him down. He only continued to dab at his forehead, moving hair from his shivering face every now and again, as he tried to remember a stronger, more confident Alfred, and how this this situation should be reversed. Because they needed Alfred. They needed America. If not for strength, they needed him for a smile or even just a happier thought. If he wasn't strong. How could they be strong?

Mathieu hardly even realized when the tears began to fall from his eyes into his brother's wheat gold hair, but he did recognize the gentle pressure on his chest when Alfred leaned farther back into it. He guessed that that small motion was his twin's way to answer his question, knowingly or not.

Either way, it gave him a message that gave him a little hope.

To him, it was simple;

_You can be the strong one for me.  
_


	11. Part 9-11

_**I apologize if this update is a bit… spacy, but I've been pretty sick for a while, so my mind isn't at its peak XD, plus my grandpa fell in his kitchen and they put him in a nursing home, so things are getting hectic DX. Other than all that, it's mostly because this is just one of those places in the story where important things just seem like fillers. Just wanted to say that before I put it out.**_

_**Lastly, I was just wondering if anyone would mind helping me with the cover. I have an image I can use, but it's only of America and Canada, and, of course, it's not the rare 'over-protective Canada' picture(I'm pretty sure it's HetaOni, to be honest). I can draw it myself, but I don't think it would be exactly 'quality', but I trust that my favorite readers can lend me a hand XD**_

_..._

…

…_.Part 9: Lament…._

_Dear God, let this be just a bad nightmare._

_Roy Horn_

…

Mathieu stayed up the rest of the night with Alfred, even after he was able to coax the other to sleep.

The Canadian didn't want him to wake up for a while, so every time the American moved or shifted even the slightest, Matt would shush him kindly till he would rest again. Alfred didn't wake up much, but it was hard to get him to sleep after he did, but at least they didn't wake up the others. Matt guessed that it was almost morning at the moment, but everyone appearing to be sleeping so soundly, he didn't want to wake them.

Since Alfred wasn't moving too much, he laid the wet cloth on his twin's forehead and put his good arm around his chest to pulling his sweating, feverish body closer.

After a few seconds of just watching Alfred, Mathieu hesitantly started to play with this hair, just to keep himself occupied.

Alfred flinched a little at the sudden movement, like he did every time he felt something touch him, and he reflexively started to move away a little, though not enough to make the wet cloth fall.

Matt sighed and pulled him back, "I'm so sorry, Al," he leaned his chin on Alfred's shaking shoulder, "I'm so sorry I don't know how to help you."

It was so _wrong _for something like this to happen, the Canadian was confused over what to do. He himself knew his main role at the moment was to do exactly what he was doing; take care of his brother. That and make sure they and everyone else got out of here alive. He had those goals, but Matt just didn't know how to accomplish them.

They were already beyond damaged (the things they saw in the cell would stay with them forever), but Matt just wanted to get his brother home. After what had happened, he felt that he deserved that much. But he didn't want his Papa and England to be upset when they reunited, even though he couldn't do much to help, but he needed to at least try to fix the damage Smirnov and his men had done.

But, as he looked at Alfred's sweat and tear covered face, he found himself wondering if the task was too large, or too impossible, or even not worth the effort. Just at a glance, he could see his twin was lost, broken, and, most importantly, _hurting_.

Alfred had always been the strong one since they were born, and Mathieu had no idea how to take on his role. He would probably fail horribly at being a protector, but goddammit if he was going to let anyone do something this to Alfred again! He had to try; it wasn't a question, it was a fact. Matt _had _to do whatever it took to save him, and he would do it gladly, he just needed to find out _how_.

Suddenly, he felt a motion against his chest pulling him out of his thoughts.

Alfred flinched in his sleep, biting a quivering lip. His shaking increased as he gasped, eyes shut tight.

_Nightmare_, Matt inwardly sighed, _How many of those had he been through all alone during his torture?_ The Canadian tried not to think about that question as he went into action.

"Shh…" he whispered, taking his hand, "It's okay. I'm here."

Alfred tried to get away from his hand.

"It's just me, Al," Matt sighed, "Don't worry."

He quietly gave a small sob and shook harder.

"Take a deep breathe," he wiped some sweat from his brow with the cloth, "Remember where you are, Al. You're with me, Alfred. You're safe now."

Alfred's eyes jolt open as he almost flew forward. He panted, eyes wide as he felt like vomiting. Matt flinched for a second as his broken arm was thrown forward, but recovered in a second.

The Canadian used his good arm to led Alfred against his chest and he laid them both down on the floor, "Just breathe," he whispered, stroking his hair, "Just keep breathing for me, alright?"

Alfred registered who was holding him quickly, and turned into the warmth behind him so he could bury his tear covered face in the fabric.

"Shh…" Matt soothed, trying to hide his sadness at seeing his strong brother reduced to this state, "It's alright. They aren't going to hurt you anymore, Alfred. I swear it."

And they stayed like that till morning, the American's sobs eventually subsiding as he fell asleep against Mathieu's chest.

"Please hold on," Mathieu lamented, "I can't do this for much longer. I can't watch all of my friends suffer anymore. First little Peter, now Alfred, who's next? I don't understand what I need to do to help them. We won't survive at this rate. We're never going to make it." He buried his face in Alfred's hair, just to try and calm himself down, "How am I going to do this?"

In his lamenting, he didn't notice the shadow over him. He also didn't notice when Roderich's jacket was wrapped tighter around his shoulders and another jacket was placed on him as well.

Matt didn't look up as a hand brushed hair from his eyes, or when a small kiss was placed on his head; he knew who it was, so he didn't do anything about it.

Elizabeta's motherly hand gently caressed him sadly, "We're going to be fine," she whispered, "Have faith."

"There's no faith left," Matt quietly cried without lifting his head.

"We need to just find our own then," she smiled, "Giving up hope so soon isn't worth it. We have nothing to do but hope."

Matt raised his head slightly and looked at his twin's face, "I don't want them to break us."

The Hungarian sighed, "Then don't let them."

…_.Part 10: Summarizing…._

_I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion._

_Jack Kerouac_

_(aka. Danny couldn't find any quotes)_

…

Five weeks later, not much had changed for group.

They were only visited every morning by a soldier, who would throw them a small amount of food, and leave. Alfred was healing well, but he still remained silent, except for the occasional sigh or such noise. Mathieu was still a bit upset about his brother's sudden trauma-induced silence, but he realized that there was no point in trying to make him speak. He figured Alfred would talk when he was ready, and he would wait if his twin wanted him to.

What had happened the night the American came back was something they chose not to talk about. They tried to ignore the rare, quiet sobs they could hear at night from the brothers' corner, as well as did they dismissed the gentle shushing. They're was not thing they could do at the time, and whenever anyone besides Matt tried to subdue Alfred in his feverish hallucinations, the American would only hide his face and tense up, his breathing turning even more labored.

On rare occasions, Alfred was sometimes able to find enough strength to open his eyes and actually answer short 'yes or no' questions if they weren't to prying or reminded him of anything. When they did manage that much, all they would receive would be a small nod or shake of his head, though the effort normally would lull him to a tired sleep after one or two questions.

Despite of that, they were quite glad to have their American back, regardless of his mental state. Alfred was at least a little safer physically with them than he was under the torture of their captors, even if he was so weak he can barely move. They just wanted to get him home in one piece.

So, five weeks had past, and all seemed well.

"Here, boys," Elizabeta smiled as she handed them food rations.

Mathieu reached over with his good arm and took them, "Thank you, Lizzy."

The Canadian took the bread and started to ripe it into small, easy-to-chew pieces for his twin. He also did the same to half of the second piece, which was meant for him.

"Feeling any better, Alfred?" she knelt down and looked down fondly to the American in Matt's lap.

Alfred looked up at her hesitantly shaking slightly. He attempted to shrug slightly as answer, but it came out more of a wince.

The Hungarian chuckled, "I'm glad your back. I truly am."

When she left, Matt took the bread and tried to coax the other to eat the bread.

Alfred turned away from the stale bread and shook his head.

"Come on, Al," Mathieu sighed, insistent, "You need to eat something."

He could feel his brother just settling deeper into his arms, hiding his face.

"Alfred," he said warningly, "I'm not giving in until you eat."

The American gazed up slowly, tired eyes begging for him to just let him sleep.

"No," Matt said, trying to get the food to his mouth again, "Eat."

Alfred looked at him considerately, before allowing Matt to put some of the bread in his mouth.

While Matt mentally celebrated his little triumph, Roderich startled the others by biting his thumb until blood dripped to the ground.

"Roderich!" Peter jumped, "What are you doing?"

The Austrian ripped a medium size cloth from his shirt, "I'm going to try and get contact with the others."

"You mean-" Elizabeta started.

"Yes, the other nations," he said as he put the fabric on his lap, "I'll ask Toris to take it to them as soon as he comes back again."

"That's a good idea," Matt said from other side of the room, "They're all probably so worried."

"With good reason," Roderich nodded, "I figured that keeping contact might very well keep us occupied for a little while what with all that's going on. That, and I think they would like to know what's going on from us directly instead of just from Toris."

"What should we tell them about?" Lovino asked.

"Whatever we want," Roderich said, "As long as it fits on the cloth."

"I think..." Matt sighed, leaning his chin in Alfred's hair, "We should be honest. Tell them everything."

Roderich smiled, "That won't fit on the cloth."

"We make it fit."

_...Part 11: A Letter Home…._

_Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged._  
_ Samuel Johnson _

…_._

_To the remainder of the free nations._

That was how the letter started.

_To the remainder of the free nations, we are still alive. _

Arthur had read those reassuring words so many times, he could recite it better than America could his Preamble.

_Though this place is our hell on earth, we have hope for a speedy end to this war and our freedom._

They were strong words, a little naïve, but they made the Englishman feel like he wasn't the only one willing to fight this war.

The rest of the letter Toris had brought them was simple, and to the point; _We are still here, but we need help_.

It was written on filthy cloth in blood, but Arthur expected nothing better, what else would they have to spare? He did hope the blood wasn't America's or Sealand's, such a thing would be too gruesome for him to look at, but, by the rather fine fond it was in, he guessed either Austria or Hungary had written it (though he thought the rather poetic and vivid greeting line sounded eerily like a certain document that had haunted him for years).

They told them threw the letter that they were all alive, but Arthur could see the implied. He knew they were in pain, even if they didn't specify how. He _would _find out what they needed, got it to them, then he _would _save them.

Though it did seem that he was the only one who was coming to their rescue.

Arthur forced himself to stop his thoughts and put down the letter.

He didn't think he could get the other nations to help, so, other than that frog, Francis, he was alone. Arthur needed more help if he was going to do anything for them, but he could see he wasn't going to get it.

"Everyone wants to help you, you know," Toris guessed what he was thinking, "They just need a push in the right direction."

"Torture and kidnapping isn't enough anymore?" Arthur scoffed as the Lithuania sat beside him, "What more has to happen before they feel the need to lend us a hand?"

Toris looked over to him sadly, without saying anything.

"What?" Arthur looked at him, confused, "Did something happen?"

"…" Toris bit his lip, "Arthur…" he sighed, "He's dying, or at least he's close."

Arthur froze, "Who?" he grabbed Toris' shoulders, shaking him roughly, "Who's dying, Lithuania? Tell me now!"

The Lithuanian didn't try to fight him off, "England… its America."

Arthur stopped shaking him and dropped his hands to his sides, "W-What? That isn't… that isn't possible… He's too strong he… He couldn't be dying."

"Even heroes can fall, Arthur," Toris sighed, "You of all people should know that by now."

"But he's _America_!" the Brit insisted, turning away with a hand to his forehead, "Nothing can kill that idiot, not even Russia!"

"I said he's _close_," Toris stated calmly, "But he's in enormous pain and Austria tells me he's showing clear signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. He won't tell anyone exactly what happened (he won't say _anything_ to be exact), but we have a good idea what happened by his appearance."

"How?" Arthur breathed, "What could break him? What in the world could the do to America that could do that?"

"Arthur," he forced the Brit to face him, "They raped him."

Arthur just looked on, "W-What? T-That… No, he would never let that happen! America is too strong for that!"

The Brit blew off Toris' calming hand and ran up the stairs, "No! I won't believe it!"

He speed into his bedroom, taking the letter with him, and slammed the door shut.

He sunk down against the wall, wiping tears from his eyes as he tried to stop the thoughts of his brother from his mind. Arthur couldn't stop his imagination from drawing up the screams and wails he put with the images of all the war time atrocities he had seen in his life time. He didn't want to pair the bright, happy, and sometimes annoyingly joyful young man with such a horrible act, but he knew that he had no reason to doubt Toris. It had to be true.

"Why?" he cried into his arm, "Why would this happen?"

He looked down shakily to the letter, skipping most of it, till he came to the very end. The prisoners had written their names on the bottom in their own blood (obviously individually as they all looked different).

Arthur quickly acknowledged the loopy script of 'Roderich' and the small 'Elizabeta' and 'Lovino', till he came to his boys.

He chuckled as he ran a hand over the rough capitals of a childishly written 'SEALAND'. He missed the little boy so much, it hurt worse than the blitzkrieg. 'Canada' was written small and loftily on the very bottom, though he skipped over it to look at another.

At first, he didn't even recognize the writing, but after what Toris told him, Arthur guessed that his twin had guided his hand to form his name (the Englishman also figured that if he was that injured, it was probably written in Canada's blood and not America's). The sloppy signature made him hold back a sob.

Arthur knew his brother's signature like the back of his hand. Large, flamboyant, curvy, and bold; all in all, clean yet impossible to miss. But the rough, jagged, and forced lines making the name 'Alfred' just weren't right. They hand that wrote its owners name had to be shaking quite a bit, but it just scared Arthur further.

"Why couldn't it have been me?" the Brit cried quietly with his head down, "Why did this have to happen?"

He heard the door open, but didn't move.

Francis sunk down next to him, snaking an arm around his neck, "Toris told me what happened to your Amerique."

"It can't be true," Arthur shook his head, "It just can't."

"Angleterre…" the Frenchman sighed, "Please try to calm yourself."

"Shut up, frog," he growled, "What would you do if it was Canada?"

"I'd mourn," Francis nodded, "I'd mourn the loss of my petit lapin's happiness, and safety, and innocence, but then I would do what any good Papa would do."

Arthur scoffed, "And what would that be?"

"I'd go and I'd kill the person or persons who did it," he smirk, "I'd probably loss my cool and the bastards who dared to even _think_ of touching my dear little frère would meet a fate _far _worse than death. Of course, you're a gentleman, so I would expect a little more planning from you."

"He didn't deserve this, Francis," Arthur buried his face in his hands.

"No one does," he rubbed his friend's back, "But our Amerique the least. Then again, this is war. Nothing surprises me."

Francis gently eased his hands away from his face and gently kissed his forehead, "Have no fear, Angleterre. Your little brother is as much as my little brother. I know that you will never be happy until your brother is safe by your side, and his tormentors are dead and buried. You aren't alone in this battle. We will bring all of them home together."

"Francis…" Arthur was stunned, "I-I…"

"Sh," he smiled as he pulled both of them to their feet, "We should have Toris bring Amerique some clothes. He's probably freezing by my guess."

The Englishman regained himself, "I-I think I have some of his clothes in the guest room," he forced a small chuckle, "America always leaves something lying around."

"Good," Francis smiled and led him out of the room, "Then let's hurry."

"I don't think we have much longer to wait," Arthur sighed as he left the room.

…_._

…_._

…_._


	12. Parts 12-13

…_.Part 12: Lettre à mon fils…._

_So much of what is best in us is bound up in our love of family, that it remains the measure of our stability because it measures our sense of loyalty. All other pacts of love or fear derive from it and are modeled upon it._

_-Haniel Long_

…_._

Arthur looked through the drawers in his guest room, moving shirts and loose socks to find appropriate clothes to send.

He wasn't going to send anything to expensive (though Alfred really didn't have that many clothes the Brit would put in that category), but most of the clothes the American had left at his house in the past were pajamas or socks. Arthur would have just given him his own clothes, but there was no way Alfred would fit in most of his clothes.

"Have you found anything, mon ami?" Francis asked from the bed.

"Not yet," Arthur sighed, running a hand over his hair, "Why aren't you helping me, you bloody frog?"

"I'm writing," Francis smiled, raising his pen and paper.

Arthur threw a shirt at him, "Writing what, pray tell?"

"I'm writing to mon petit lapin," the Frenchman went back to putting pen to paper after folding the shirt, "I reason that if we are already coming in contact with them, what's the harm?"

"A lot, actually," the Brit pulled out a pair of pants and examined them, "It could put Toris at unnecessary risk. If he's caught with something like a letter signed by one of us, then there's absolutely no way he can explain it other than betrayal."

"And smuggling clothes into their prisoners isn't a giveaway?" he sighed.

"Clothes are easy to explain if he hides them right," Arthur reasoned, "He can say they are his own, and no one would have any reason to doubt him. But a letter is rather hard to place anywhere but from us."

"I understand the risk," Francis said, "But they don't know our human names, so I'm sure Toris could come up with something. He is a rather smart boy."

Arthur huffed in mock annoyance and pulled a flannel shirt out of the drawer, "I suppose your right, in a way. But I still find it reckless."

The Frenchman smiled as he turned back to the letter, "Of course you would."

"Do you think this will fit him?" Arthur threw him the shirt, "It looks a little too big, but it's better than it being too small."

"I think this will do," Francis nodded, "Amerique probably had it as a nightshirt of some kind, but, in his current condition, a loose fitting shirt may be better than anything tight."

"Right," he nodded as he dug out a pair of sweatpants and put them on the bed, "Am I forgetting anything?"

Francis looked at his small pile and then raised an eyebrow, "Well, I'd suggest some form of underwear if you have it."

Arthur thought before wordlessly pulling red, white, and blue boxers out from the drawer, "This is all that I have of his."

"Well, maybe we can get a laugh out of them, non?" Francis smiled as he folded the rest of the clothes.

"That would be something I'd kill to see," Arthur smiled as he sat down, "I probably will have to kill to see them at all."

Francis brushed against his shoulder and put down the letter, "They're worth it."

"Yes," Arthur nodded, "They really are."

He took the folded clothes from the bed and looked at them. He tried to imagine Alfred wearing the old fabric, smiling his normal, idiotic grin, laughing at an insane volume like he always did. The image came to his mind blurrily, a little rough around the edges, but Arthur was just glad that he could still hold on to that picture, now that he figured he wouldn't be seeing anything of that happy young man he had once known even after they would bring him home. With a little effort, he managed to picture Sealand laughing beside him, pulling on his shirt childishly, and Canada on his other side smiling shyly, holding Kumajiro in a tight hug.

The mental image brought a brief smile to Arthur's face, even though he had to force back the nagging thought that he wasn't going to see his boys happy and healthy for a long time.

"What are you writing to Canada?" he asked, looking at the letter.

Francis picked up the paper, "Oh, nothing of importance. I just wanted to talk to him in some form, just to let him know his papa is thinking of him."

"So just personal then?" Arthur asked.

"Of course," Francis chuckled as he folded the letter, "Just a small comfort in the midst of war."

"We shouldn't push our luck on anything that isn't vital," the Brit sighed, "It's there safety that's at stake."

"I want to keep their mentality up," the Frenchman said, "The calmer they are, the more likely they get out in few pieces. Any bit of comfort we can offer them is just as important as anything benefiting their physical state. I want them to come back alive, but don't tell me it wouldn't shatter your heart to have your Amerique come home to living, but dead inside."

The mental image of Alfred laughing suddenly blurred even worse than it was and Arthur swore he was frowning back at him.

"I just want them home, safe and sound," Arthur bit his lip, "That's my first priority. You can never be happy in a war, but I want them to at least be partially at ease. But a few words on a paper can't even begin to comfort them. Sealand is just a boy, and America has gone through so much in this short time, I don't think I could do anything for them other than provide what they need most right now," he motioned to the clothes next to them, "A small sense of security."

"I try to think as mon petit lapin when I worry about him," Francis smiled, squeezing his companions shoulder, "Canada is quiet, but he thinks things through too much. My frère is probably worrying twice as much as you, Angleterre," he chuckled slightly, "In fact, he's probably fusing over your Amérique as we speak. But I worry myself that he is forgetting about himself, and my dear little Canada is losing that wonderful French charm I have passed onto him in favor of your English courage. I don't want him running off into a war on his own like you and I. I want him to know I am with him just as much as I am with you, mon ami."

Arthur thought on Francis' words, "Maybe… You might be on to something, frog," he picked up the clothes and Francis' letter, "But I have no time or ability to even try to comprehend what goes on in either of my brother's minds, plus I must get these to Toris as well."

"Very well, bonne nuit, Angleterre," Francis smiled as he left the room.

The Englishman walked out and, instead of going to the door to find Toris, he went quickly to his own room.

Arthur plucked a small scrap of paper from his desk, as well as a pen, and let his emotions right the only thing in the world he could think to tell two of the most important people in his life.

_...Part 13: A Letter to my Son…._

_Life is made up, not of great sacrifices or duties, but of little things, in which smiles and kindness, and small obligations given habitually, are what preserve the heart and secure comfort._

_-Humphry Davy_

…_.._

Toris couldn't help but sweat slightly as he went down the stairs.

He didn't think about how hard getting France and England's package to the prisoners at the time, but now he regretted it slightly.

The package itself wasn't heavy or large, but it was still certainly much thicker than a piece of paper, and larger than a few medical supplies. Toris couldn't fit it in his pocket, so it was currently tight against his chest, beneath his shirt. He found it quite difficult to slip the bulk in his clothing by the guards without any suspicion.

He was just glad that most of the people in this place were complete and utter idiots.

He slipped the guard on duty by the door a bribe and Toris was given entrance to the cell.

"Greetings everyone," he forced a smile.

"Hello, Toris," Roderich greeted. He sat beside Elizabeta, holding her hand, "Did something happen outside?"

"No, no. Nothing happened, don't worry," Toris said, started to take the package out of his shirt, "I have something though." He tossed it to Mathieu.

Mathieu managed to catch it clumsily with one hand, the other wrapped around his twin's shoulder, "What is this?"

"Arthur and Francis sent it," Toris sensed their confusion and quickly corrected himself, "England and France."

Alfred briefly looked up from his stare at the ground. Matt jumped up, "Papa sent it?"

"Yes, but don't ask me what's in it," the Lithuania answered, "I think they said they were sending clothes for Alfred, but I France said that he sent a letter as well."

Matt quickly undid the makeshift packaging and pulled out some clothes, "You must have left them at England's house or something, Al."

Alfred hesitantly wrapped his fingers around the fabric in his brother's hands, as if trying to remember when exactly he left them there.

"Can I have the string off the package?" Peter popped up beside them.

"Why would you want string?" Elizabeta questioned, amused.

"I'm _bored_," Peter whined, giving Matt his best, childish smile, "It's so stuffy and cramped in here, but at least I can practiced some knot tying to bid my time."

"Sure, Peter," Mathieu handed him the small string that held the package together off the floor, "Knock yourself out."

Alfred grabbed his brother's sleeve and lightly pulled it. When the Canadian looked down, he slipped a letter into his hands.

"Must have been wrapped in the clothes," Matt commented, unfolding the paper carefully, "Speaking of which, you want help, Al?"

The American tiredly waved him off. He lazily looked up to the other's, which they took for a _I am going to change, if you have any problem with that, file it in the court system and wait nine months to see if I give a crap_ kind of look.

In a few moments, Alfred had struggled into the loose fitting clothes with a little help, than settled back down.

"What does the letter say, Mathieu?" Roderich questioned.

"It's in French," he stated, "And it's personal."

"Alright," he sighed, "Whatever you want."

Toris moved over to the door, "I'm sorry I don't have much else to tell you today, but I really must be going."

"Of course," Roderich nodded, "Do what you must."

"Thanks for bringing this to us," Elizabeta smiled.

"My pleasure," the Lithuania chuckled as he left the room, "I will return soon."

They were silent as they were left alone in the room.

Each of them went back to their own business as the quiet settled. Peter showed Lovino an improved clinch knot, Roderich whispered in Elizabeta's ear, making her giggle, and Mathieu smiled slightly as he silently mouthed over his papa's words.

Alfred played around with the cuff of his shirt, buttoning and unbuttoning the cuff, flattening the wrinkles in the sleeve, and running a finger over the ends. He wanted to try and imagine England holding it, handing it to Toris with his ever cynical smile, or even just his brother's face in general, but Alfred was just too tired to think so deeply and so intricately, so the mental image was blurry. It made him a little depressed that he couldn't even recall faces that had once been so important to him.

The American buried his face in his brother's good arm, a motion that was only taken in for a moment by Matt before he disregarded it as an act of self-comfort that his twin had been doing quite a lot recently. He gently nuzzled his face into the fabric, just trying to forget about the world outside their prison just for a moment.

He felt Matt rub his shoulder gently, but Alfred knew his eyes were on the letter instead of him. He tried to just fall asleep again against Matt's chest, knowing that there was no way that he could do anything else.

When the Canadian absentmindedly leaned forward and pressed a little closer as he rested his chin on Alfred's head, they were both startled by a rustling sound from Alfred's shirt.

"What the hell?" Matt silently whispered, silently moving his forward a little as he himself moved back. He put down his letter and looked over where the sound came from.

Alfred's slightly shaking hand went to the pocket on the flannel shirt and eased it open. He reached in carefully and pulled out a small scrap of paper, which Mathieu took from him.

"It's not addressed," he commented, "But if papa sent me a letter, that's probably England, so it has to be for you and Peter."

As if he heard his name whispered, the boy appeared by their side, string and Italian left behind, "What is that?"

"We think it's from your brother," the Canadian said, allowing him to come closer. Alfred had Peter sit on his lap and he wrapped an arm around him.

"Really?" Peter took it from Matt's hand quickly, "What does it sa-"

He stopped as he opened the note and stared at it.

"Well? What does it say Peter?" Matt asked, going to pick up the paper.

"No!" Peter held tight to the paper, "No, if your letter's personal, then so is ours. Right, Alfred?"

The American looked at him confused, but nodded nonetheless.

"Alright…" Matt looked a little bit worriedly at Peter, but let him go and returned to reading his letter.

Peter crawled off of Alfred's lap and knelt by his side, "You keep this, Al." He forced the paper into his hand, "You need this more."

Alfred looked at him curiously, settling back into his twin's arms.

"Promise me you'll keep it safe?" Peter asked.

He kept a blank face and nodded silently.

Peter smiled brightly and forced himself under Matt's arm and against Alfred's side, from where he went about annoying the Canadian playfully and bringing a little noise to the room in the form of childish chatter.

Alfred watched on as Peter reached over him and tried to pull at his twins hair and shirt to get his attention. While they were both distracted, he slowly unfolded the paper, and read the words that Peter seemed to think he needed more than he did;

_It's going to be alright. I will bring you home, I promise. I love you. _

Alfred ran a shaking finger over the words before folding it again and placing it in his shirt pocket, right over his heart.


	13. END OF ACT 2: Part 14

…_.Part 14: No More…._

…_..._

…_..._

"Greetings, dogs," clunky boots sounded loudly against the floor of the prison as the door slammed shut, "I hope you all are feeling well."

Matt forced himself to not beat Smirnov's head in where he stood. He could feel Alfred start at the horrible, sickeningly cheerful voice that filled his days of torture, and surely his nightmares as well. Mathieu pulled the sandy blonde head of hair to rest against his shoulder, hiding Alfred's shaking face in the fabric, "What do you want?" he growled, venom practically _dripped _from his voice.

"Oh well that wasn't very nice," the commander sighed, "We must work on that, da? I'm sure it would be fun to retrain you as I had your brother," he leaned down a little in front of them and went to grab Alfred, "Don't you think we had fun, boy?"

"_Don't touch him!_" Matt snarled, trying to put as much between his brother and the mad man as he could.

Smirnov glared, annoyed. He slapped Matt across the face harshly, "You need to learn to show your betters respect, dog, that is if you want to live, anyway."

"I'd rather _die _than let you hurt him again!" he bite back.

The commander smirked down at him and roughly grabbed Alfred by the hair. The American tensed up rapidly, but he was quickly tossed aside roughly.

"Alf-!" Matt went to go to his side, but Smirnov in turn kicked him square in the gut, making his arm fall out of its sling. He screamed in surprise and pain as Smirnov grabbed his arm and snapped it like a twig.

"_Mathieu!_" Elizabeta panicked, startled by the attack. Roderich grabbed her by the waist and pulled her down.

Smirnov laughed, watching the Canadian writhe, "Are you having fun now? I will make you feel this pain until you _beg _for death, dog," he smiled, "But I am not allowed to kill anything other than your spirits sadly, so I must do my best to amuse myself with other pass times.

"You should be happy!" he laughed, "I have the whole day to give you my utmost attention," he pulled out a hand gun and knife. Smirnov used Matt's pain to his advantage as he held the gun to his head, "I will first break you into a thousand pieces, till you once again match your twin. Do not worry, my soldiers' sexual pursuits are beneath me, but you will feel pain, dog," looked back to the others, "Then you will all have your turn to feel it as well. And then, you will _all _be completely one with mother Russia, as you should."

Everything started to go in slow motion. Smirnov smiled and raised his gun to aim at Mathieu's chest, not in a fatal spot, but one that would probably hurt horribly. Alfred watched in horror as the man went to pull the trigger, though he still remained deathly silent and frozen. Peter started to cry again, Roderich tried to keep himself in front of Elizabeta. Mathieu stared forward as the bullet went from the gun with a bang and, in a flash a body crashed into him and slumped on top of him.

Everyone was in shock as Lovino's abdomen wept liquid the color of his most precious tomatoes all over the ground as he crashed into the wall, Canada beneath him.

"Lovi?" Matt whispered, startled, "What?"

Smirnov growled menacingly, "Stupid Italian!" he kicked Lovino's side, "Why don't you just stay out of others business, hum?"

"D-Do not… h-hurt… them…" he breathed, grimacing and clutching his side, "Don't… t-touch… them… bastardo… I've had… enough…"

"You are in no position to make demands," Smirnov smirked, raising his gun and pushing Canada aside, "You are a foolish little coward, learn your place, dog."

Peter screamed as Smirnov fired two more bullets into his friend, one a little higher above the last one, the other in his upper thigh.

The Russian commander smiled as he was about to fire again, "Scream for me," he laughed as his finger went to the trigger.

But, before he could even register what was happening, Roderich slammed him in the chest, "No more!" He forced Smirnov against the wall, "No more, Smirnov!"

"Y-You-" The commander stopped smiling, actually afraid of the pianist for a moment.

Roderich punched him in the gut, sending him against the door, "Enough! I will not stand for you to hurt them anymore! You may want what you think is best for your nation, but I want what's _necessary _for my friends. You've brought such tragedy amongst not only us, but surely amongst the world and our people. You devastated my family, and I will not stand for it! _You will not hurt them any longer!_"

He grabbed Smirnov's hand, forcing his gun to fly away from the evil man. Elizabeta rushed over to Lovino and Mathieu, pulling Peter out of the way of the men's brawl, "Roderich!" she screamed.

Roderich threw as many blows as he could, but he wasn't made to fight. He was a pianist; an artist, but not a fighter.

"_Look out!"_ Mathieu cried as he saw the metallic glint before the others did.

Smirnov angrily drove his knife that Roderich had forgotten about in his rage into the first thing he could stab; Roderich's fist.

The Austrian stopped as the blade dug directly in between his knuckles, and leaving a huge gap from the joint between his middle and ring finger when Smirnov roughly pulled it out. Roderich gasped and clutched his hand in pain.

"Ha!" the Russian laughed, blood dripping off of his hand, "Foolish dogs! You think you could stop me? I am superior! I am in charge! I-I am your _god_! Fear me-" He fell to the ground as a shoot rang out and his face was quickly demolished.

"A-Alfred?" Mathieu looked at the steaming gun in his brother's shaking hands.

He didn't respond, as usual, Alfred only looked the gun over in his hands and shot Smirnov one more time in the heart, just to be sure, before putting the safety on and leaning back against the wall.

They all stared at the corpse in front of them for a moment before fully comprehending what had happened.

"Oh my god," Elizabeta breathed out, not being able to find better words for what had occurred, "Oh my god…"

"He's dead," Matt gasped, looking at the eyes glazing over, "He's really dead." The Canadian then slowly came out of his daze and looked turned his attention to the pale Italian in his arms, "Elizabeta, take the gun and shoot whoever is on guard.," he barked, calmly looking over the bullet wounds in Lovino, "Peter, if you would, get the knife from Smirnov and give it to me. I need to get the bullets out of him. Roderich, I better look at your hand, it's bleeding pretty badly."

Elizabeta looked at him, "What?"

"I said take the gun and-"

"I heard you," she shook her head, "But _why_?"

"Whoever is out there had to have heard the gun fire, and they're gonna come in here either way," he explain, going through their medicine, "Plus, he may have more bullet and another gun or two," Matt looked up at her, "Would you like me to do it instead? You can handle Lovino and Roderich, I'm sure."

The Hungarian nodded after a moment and took Lovino from the Canadian's lap and on to her own, stroking his hair gently as Peter shakily handed her the bloody knife. She briskly wiped the red liquid off on her skirt and began to try and dislodge the bullet from his side.

The Italian bit back a pain-filled scream as the blade dug in his skin. His muffled voice was quickly silenced by Mathieu shooting out the door three times, and dragging in the body of a heavily armed guard. As he shut the door, they could hear angry voices rushing at the door, "Don't worry," Matt said as they heard banging against the metal, "They fixed that door so that it's not only thick enough that we can't break out, they can't break in.

"Peter, come help me," he barked to the shaking boy, "We need to get the guns off him."

"Matt, what's wrong with you!" Elizabeta looked at him like he was insane, "Your acting like an animal!"

"It's them or use, Lizzy," he growled, pulling a dagger from the soldier's boot, "I'm not letting them win. Just this one victory could save our lives if the others on the outside play their cards right. As long as we have the ability to keep them out of this room, we don't have to worry of attacks. Our only problems are illness and food. We can't rely on Toris now, we have to survive off what we have."

"Canada," Roderich forced out as he tried to make his hand stop bleeding, "This isn't you; just calm down and take a deep breathe."

Matt stopped what he was doing, leaving the room silent except for the banging against the door and Lovino's ragged breathing. After a moment, he went back to work, "It smells like blood in here."

He and Peter managed to get all the supplies they could off of the two corpses (Peter a bit more hesitant than the other, but trying nonetheless). They managed to make a small organized pile of all the weapons and supplies. In all, they found three knives, two magazines, and two other shot guns on Smirnov and the guard from outside had an AK-74 as well as a set of ammunition for the gun, and they found a small hand gun strapped to his leg. They also found some other supplies like a swiss army knife and a notebook on Smirnov, as well as a large amount of cigarettes and two lighters on the guard, who appeared to be a chronic smoker.

Mathieu sent Peter off and heaved the two bodies on top of each other in a pile with a new found strength despite his still throbbing arm, and threw Smirnov's long jacket over their faces, "We can't move them anywhere, so this will have to do for now."

"Are you… alright?" Lovino breathed out, fighting back tears.

The Canadian smiled and knelt next to him briefly, "I'm fine, Lovi. You didn't have to do that."

"I did," he insisted, "We all… need to… survive."

"That includes you," he chuckled, "Rest now, Lizzy is almost done, then you can sleep, alright?"

The Italian nodded tiredly as Elizabeta stitched the first wound shut and moved down the one on his abdomen.

"Now let's see that hand Roderich," Matt sat beside his brother, carefully slipping his broken arm back into its sling almost as an afterthought. Alfred still held Smirnov's hand gun tightly in his shaking hands, staring forward at the pile in the corner. His twin leaned slightly against him and gestured for Roderich to sit beside him and reached out for his hand.

Roderich hesitantly sat down, leaning his head back against the cold wall, "H-How's your arm, Mathieu? He smashed it pretty hard, right?"

Matt laughed slightly, taking bandages, a rag, disinfectant, a needle, and tread from their supplies, "You know, to be honest, it barely even hurts anymore."

"That's not a good sign," the Austrian tried to take a casual tone, failing horribly, "It may need to be amputated if you aren't careful."

"As long as it doesn't affect me to badly now, I'm comfortable with that," he gingerly looked at Roderich's wound, "Roderich, neither you or Lovi had to do what you did. It could have been so much worse."

Roderich snorted to hide his pain as Matt patted the bloody flesh with disinfectant, "I'm the one supposed to be telling you that, Matt. It's small, I'll live. And yes, I did have to do that. I will not stand by and let my family be threatened."

"Family?" he questioned, putting down the bloody rag.

"What else is there to call it?" the Austrian bit his tongue as Matt started to stitch the skin together. He watched him work, eyes following his swift fingers, "You're getting very good at working one handed, aren't you?"

"I guess I am," the Canadian said, "At least it's my left arm; if it was my right I wouldn't be that much help now would I?"

"You're a great help. More than you realize," he smiled painfully, "You and your brother have changed so much, though, it scares me."

Alfred, recognizing when he was being addressed, turned to them and rested his chin on Matt's shoulder so he could watch them. Matt laughed and leaned his head slightly to the side on his twin's like a weird hug then went back to fixing Roderich's hand.

"Not forever, Roddy," Matt smiled, "I'm gonna fix this; every bit of it. I just want to get back to normal as much as we can. I know what happens here will never leave us, but I will try to help everyone go back to normal and I'll do whatever it takes to get us out."

Roderich frowned and surprised Matt by brushing the side of his had that wasn't occupied by an American with his good hand, "You're so different now, Canada. Your papa would be very proud of you," he flicked Alfred's Nantucket softly, "You too, Al. Very good shot, I must say."

Alfred smiled slightly before it faded and he went back to looking at the pile from his perch on his twin's shoulder.

Matt finished stitching his hand shut and looked into his purple eyes, "Rest, Roderich. I'll take watch tonight."

The Austrian smiled and ruffled his hair lightly, as well and gently brushing some hair out of Alfred's eyes before carefully sitting beside Elizabeta.

She had just finished stitching Lovino's last bullet wound when he oh-so-elegantly plopped down beside her, "How is he?" Roderich whispered into her ear, followed by a kiss to her neck.

"H-He's lost a lot of blood," she bit her lip, wiping blood from her hands on to her skirt before brushing her thumb over Lovino's pale face, "But I think he'll be alright."

"I'm glad," Roderich smiled sadly, "At least we're all here." He kissed her again, then started to play with Lovi's blood crusted hair, trying to get some of the filth out.

Elizabeta gently took his injured hand into her own, "Austria…"

"I'm aware of the issue, Lizzy," he brushed it off, "But it's not as important as living."

"But if it's that bad, you won't-"

"I don't care about music anymore, Hungary!" he sighed, "Or at least it isn't as important as it was. All I want is Lovi to heal. I want Mathieu to keep his arm. I want Alfred to smile and actually mean it again. I want Peter to be an annoying little twat like he should be because his only a child and he has every right to be. I want to see Prussia again just so I can finally beat him at something. I want to hear Italy worry over his brother like I know he will. I want that annoying France to make Mathieu laugh again (really _laugh_, like when you just laugh for no good reason). I want England to come and save his boys like he promises; so I can hear Alfred laugh again when I yell at him for taking too damn long! And I want, oh god, I want you to have clean clothes, good food, and a beautiful smile as I sweep you off your feet while we dance like never before. That's all I want. That's all I want. I want you to be happy, Hungary."

Elizabeta saw the tear fall down his eye from beneath his glasses. She kissed his cheek, gingerly running her hand on his bandages, "I love you. I love you so much."

Peter drew his legs up to his chest, not knowing what to do with himself. He tried not to think about the bodies and weapons in the corner, but they were freaking him out regardless. He didn't want to interrupt Elizabeta and Roderich (it looked like they were having a moment) and Lovino was resting, so he didn't want to wake him. Matt was talking to Alfred and, though their one-sided conversations had become rather common place, Peter felt that after Alfred's dead shot killed their captor, well, they needed a little space.

So, the Sealander just sat in the corner, and pulled out his rope and made a few knots to occupy his mind. For some reason, Peter's mind just couldn't forget the bodies or the blood smell in the room. He had such a feeling of death around him, Peter didn't even notice he was making a very skillful noose until he had it tied around his finger, twirling it absentmindedly.

"S-Sealand," he heard a slight cough choke out his name.

He turned to see that Roderich and Elizabeta had stopped making out, and they looked down to the Italian on Elizabeta's lap.

"Come here…" he whispered, struggling to make Peter hear him.

Peter rushed over to his side, shoving his string in his pocket, "Lovi?"

The Italian smiled as a little blood from his cough dribbled down his chin, "You… You alright little guy?"

"I'm fine, wanker!" he glared, "You were almost killed!"

"I know," Lovino shakily raised a hand and pet his cheek, leaving a small trail of blood on his face.

Elizabeta silently helped Lovino lay down against the wall to get a bit more comfortable, using some spare rags as a pillow. Peter crawled up against his good side, careful not push him to hard and hurt him, then fell asleep with his face pressed into his bloody shirt.

"Please don't die, Lovi," he whispered.

The Italian smiled dully, "I won't, Veneziano, don't worry, big brother's fine."

Peter stopped, then crawled closer. He could offer that comfort, like America had offered him in his weakness when all he wanted was his own brother. If Lovino wanted, he could be his little, weird brother for the night. It was fine with him.

…_.._

…_._

…_._

_END OF ACT 2_

…_.._

…

…_.._

…_.._

_NEXT- ACT 3: BARRACADE_

…

…_.._

…

_Do you hear the people sing?_

_Singing a song of angry men?_

_It is the music of a people_

_Who will not be slaves again!_

_When the beating of your heart_

_Echoes the beating of the drums_

_There is a life about to start_

_When tomorrow comes!_

_Will you join in our crusade?_

_Who will be strong and stand with me?_

_Beyond the barricade_

_Is there a world you long to see?_

_Then join in the fight_

_That will give you the right to be free!_

_Do you hear the people sing?_

_Singing a song of angry men?_

_It is the music of a people_

_Who will not be slaves again!_

_When the beating of your heart_

_Echoes the beating of the drums_

_There is a life about to start_

_When tomorrow comes!_

_-'Do You Hear the People Sing?' Les Miserables Cast_


	14. Act 3: Part 1-4

…_.ACT 3: REVOLT…_

…_.Part 1: You Don't Have to Drink to Get Drunk…._

_Wine is constant proof that God loves us and loves to see us happy._

_Benjamin Franklin_

…_._

In light of recent events, Arthur found himself actually drinking less.

Normally, if anything bothered him, he just went to a pub, threw the bartender a fifty, took a bottle of rum, and drank his problems away till he either would get kicked out or Francis, Alfred, or sometimes even Mathieu would come and drag him home to sober up, then Arthur would shoo them off and drink some whiskey from his liquor cabinet and he would get drunk all over again. It was a vicious cycle really.

But lately he didn't even have time to get a drink in, let alone get drunk. With all the planning and the invasions going on, Arthur went into a no-nonsense mode as he tried to organize what let troops he had between him and Francis into a well-tuned war machine.

Francis had kindly taken the burden of recruiting other nations to their cause, which Arthur was very grateful for. The Frenchman seemed to have a way with people, as he did manage to convince several smaller nations to help them, such as Turkey and Greece (who both were teamed up begrudgingly force the Russian army out of their lands) as well as Belgium. Belgium had been an alliance that gave the two European nations a large bit of hope, as she had never gone out of her neutral stance on anything. Arthur was (for once) very impressed with Francis' charm, only because it may very well lead to their win.

Arthur worked on strategy and their troops from behind a desk. He originally wasn't thrilled with the idea of a desk job in a war, but the Brit had to admit that it was a lot better on his mind than actually supervising an army would be.

He was able to think a lot more clearly than before now that he was by himself. As he worked, Arthur often found himself recalling the oddest little things about his boys, letting the blurry image in his mind grow a little clearer. Every single act he ordered, every letter he typed, every call he heard was for Peter and Alfred. And every time he felt like throwing his laptop out the window, or even slapping that perverted frog upside the head (granted Francis had been toning it down a fair bit, but he was still a bit trying at times), Arthur would force himself to calm down and work. He'd just turn back to his work after glancing at the two picture frames he kept on his desk and remember that this was for them. It was all for them.

Arthur looked up briefly from his paper to regard the pictures. One was of Peter and himself, both smiling and the younger holding a cellphone up to take their picture. He gently reached over and ran his finger over the metal frame fondly. He wanted to save that happy smile so badly, it physically hurt. He never realized just how much he cared about that overly annoying little squirt that was always running around, trying to be nation and always wanting his attention at all times. Arthur promised himself that he'd be a better brother when this was over; he'd do whatever it took just to see that smile again.

He moved from the metal frame to a slightly older wooden one. The picture itself wasn't as new as the other, and Arthur wasn't in it. It was black and white, with two similar faces smiling back at him from behind the frames glass.

The Briton picked up the picture of the North American twins fondly. It was a very old daguerreotype from the type of photograph's hay day, 1850. Alfred looked a little uncomfortable in the more formal clothes that the time period had determined 'normal', though he smiled nonetheless. He stood beside Mathieu, who look much more natural with a bright, yet calm smile. They stood in Alfred's backyard, posing for the photographer.

Arthur didn't know when the picture was taken, or why, but he had found it a while ago when he was digging around Alfred's house and he found a photo album of old pictures. He didn't remember how he came to own it, but he was grateful for it. He himself really didn't have many pictures of the twins since when they were close, camera's weren't invented yet and Alfred could never hold still long enough for a painting and Arthur often completely forgot poor little Mathieu. After their childhood, he was either their enemy or their reluctant ally.

But once he got them back, he swore that he'd fix their relationship. Arthur was going to make things right; he'd be there from now on. He wanted to make sure they both knew that they had people who cared about them, and that they were never forgotten at any time, and that he loved them so much.

He realized that when they did get them back, Francis was probably going to abduct Matt and hide him away for the rest of his young life, but he himself was going to smother Alfred in all the love and affection he could muster. He and Peter would be so sick of Arthur's care, they'd be afraid. All he wanted was them to be safe.

Arthur put the picture frame back down as his door flew open.

"Arthur?" Toris hurriedly walked in the door.

He raised his head, "Yes?"

"We have a big problem," the Lithuania sighed.

"What?" Arthur stood as Francis ran in.

"Angleterre!" the Frenchman began excitedly, "Have you heard yet?"

"No, frog," the Brit scoffed, "Toris was just about to-"

"They're revolting," Francis grabbed his shoulders, "The America's, North and South. They're fighting back Russia hold. Our boys are fighting back!"

"What!" Arthur was shocked, "Are you serious, Francis? How can they be fighting, they're in prison!"

"Their people are," Toris explained, "They're sick of being oppressed and well…"

"The America's love a good revolution," Arthur smirked, "Before if you told me that, I would have slugged you, but now I couldn't be prouder!" he laughed and hugged Francis, "They're revolting! They're revolting!"

"I wanted to tell you the good news myself, mon ami," Francis laughed and broke off of him to retrieve a wine bottle and some glasses, "I was going to go and use the information of a revolt to try and get more help before we charge. But first," He filled each and raised his own, "A toast! To the boys!"

"To the boys!" Arthur took a sip of the wine and smiled to himself. He didn't finish his glass like the other two men, because he didn't need to get drunk right now. People got drunk to solve their problems and to try and be a little happier. If his most important people were fighting to come back to him, that made him drunk enough to make it through this war.

…_Part 2: Heroes and Brothers…_

_I don't want to be your hero. I want to be your brother. You know, I want to be your family member. I want to be your equal._

_Tom Shadyac_

…

God, how he wanted to laugh when he saw that body crash to the ground, but he didn't.

No, Alfred just silently let his twin handle the aftermath of his actions. He patiently watched Matt work quickly to organize the chaos, remove the guard from outside, and make sure they were safe. He had such a good brother, it made his heart swell with pride, until the abnormal feeling of emotion got the better of him and he got a headache.

Alfred moved his attention to the dead bodies hidden at the end of the room under fabric.

The soldier Matt killed probably had a family at home. A wife, maybe some kids too; every man had a mother, anyways. He would never see his wife again, never watch his kids grow up, never have grandkids. And it was all because of Alfred, but he just couldn't find it in his heart to have much remorse.

What mattered was that Smirnov was dead.

He was _dead_. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, DEAD! Alfred almost couldn't believe that fact, even if the mad man had been felled by his own hand. Maybe now that the demon was dead, he could be happy again. Maybe everyone had a chance now. Maybe he could finally find the courage to tell his twin just how much of a great job he was doing with a strong, happy voice. Maybe he could live now.

But the stupid nagging voice in the back of his head just kept telling him that they were going to die.

_You've doomed them, Alfred._

He wanted so much to just make it shut up, but it was kinda hard to strangle someone who wasn't there.

_They're all going to die, and it's your fault._

Alfred clutched the gun in his hand, running his head against the cool wall.

_You'll never get out now._

He barely even noticed when Matt and Roderich sat beside him and the Canadian leaned against him. He could vaguely hold on to what they were talking about, the large gap between Roderich's fingers a good sign to the situation. Alfred could hear them talking, but he didn't move his gaze from the pile in the corner.

After a few minutes of nothingness on his part, he thought he heard something related to him being addressed in conversation. Alfred looked over at them again and leaned his chin on Matt's shoulder in the crook of his neck, and silently watched their conversation with a bit more interest than before, though he certainly had no plans on participating in it.

Matt laughed as he felt the pressure on his shoulder and leaned in to Alfred's head slightly before turning back to Roderich.

After he found himself a comfortable position, Alfred let his mind completely zone out, just letting everything turn to background noise as he silently turned to look at the corpses again.

Now that the overall adrenaline rush was gone, he felt a little tired. Managing to pick up the Russian commander's fallen gun was a tiring action in his condition, but it took a large amount of effort to aim the gun with even close to his normal accuracy, let alone actually hold on to the gun as it bucked back from firing. Alfred could feel his mind drifting slightly and clouding around the edges as the conversation went on.

Eventually, he sensed Roderich leave and go over to Elizabeta and Lovino, and Alfred felt his twin turn around to ease an arm around him.

"Al?" Matt questioned, looking at his face, "What's wrong?" He didn't wait for a response he knew he wouldn't be getting, instead following Alfred's line of vision to the corpses.

"Alfred… Don't think about him," the Canadian rubbed his shoulder gently, "He can't hurt you anymore; Smirnov's gone."

Alfred didn't make any form of response.

"He's dead, America," Matt started to pet his hair kindly, "The door is sealed shut, no one can hurt you now. I'm going to keep you safe."

The American broke his gaze for a second and looked in to his twin's eyes before snuggling into his shoulder, allowing silent tears to fall from his eyes.

Mathieu smiled sadly and continued to stroke his hair, after placing a gentle kiss to his forehead. He whispered little bits of nonsense over and over again, slowly rocking his twin back and forth soothingly. He could fell Alfred wanting to turn away and back to the bodies, but he wasn't going to let him do that if he had a choice.

"Relax, bro," he urged calmly, "Just calm down and rest," he smiled fondly, "You're the one who wants me to stop stressing my arm so much, be a good example and don't overdo it!"

Alfred just buried his head a little deeper in his coat, rubbing his tears off in the thick purple fabric. He tried to slow his crying, but still the salty tears flowed freely despite his efforts.

Matt continued to silently comfort his brother, fondling with his hair lovingly and whispering soothing words in his ear. He just kept telling him to breathe and nonsense like that, just trying to calm Alfred down, "It's okay, Al. He's dead, he's really dead. You saved us, bro. You're a hero."

The American shook his head.

"What do you mean no?" Matt chuckled sadly, "Of course you are."

Alfred carefully pushed himself up from Matt's shoulder and looked him in the eye, tears still falling from his eyes and a fist reaching under his glasses to wipe them away. He used his other hand to poke Matt's chest.

Matt smiled and leaned their foreheads together, "How bout we both are?" he gently patted Alfred's back where his brand was, "Those marks are just another bond we have, right? The mean that we're both North Americans. We're both heroes, eh?"

He nodded slightly and went back to his position against Matt's chest, resting his head on his twin's good shoulder while clinging to him in a koala around his neck, minding the sling carefully.

The Canadian brushed his hair and laid his head on Alfred's shoulder, trying to forget the sealed door that was keeping their attackers so close yet so far away from him and his wonderful, weakened, heroic brother.

…_.Part 3: Coward …._

_Un lâche traite souvent un coup mortel aux braves._

_A coward often deals a mortal blow to the brave. _

_~French Proverb_

…

Spain let out a tired sigh, leaning back in his chair.

Despite all the war and tragedy all around him, the Hispanic nation was neutral once again, and everything was silent.

There was no France and Prussia to visit, no one to share churros with, no smiling little Italy, and no Romano to eat tomatoes with.

He worried so much for his little Roma, but there was nothing he could to help him. Spain was neutral, so he couldn't get involved. He knew that his little tomato was trapped, and in danger, and just the thought of anyone touching his dear friend made him want to kill someone with nothing but his bare hands. Still, he couldn't risk his people's lives. He just couldn't.

So, the nation of Spain just leaned back in his rocking chair on his porch, eating a tomato and think of happier times.

His mind drifted to his friends, France and Prussia, for some reason or another. Once in a while, Prussia would call him for a chat, but they were short, and far in between, and France, or Francis as he wished to be called lately, was always busy with the war effort.

Of course, Spain couldn't blame him, Russia had gone too far in taking Canada and America. The North American twins had little to do with the squabbles in Eurasia, and such a brutal attack on them was unnecessary and cruel. From what little information he had, he knew that neither of the brothers were doing too well.

Spain hoped that Francis' hermano menor and America made it out safely for his friend's sake as well as the world's.

Another of his current worries was England. Spain worried of what might happen if something worse than the torture he had been hearing from some other nations happened to England's brother.

Everyone knew of the tension that had always been between the two brothers since the younger gained his independence, but it didn't exactly take a genius to realize that England would rather die than let anything happen to America, and likewise for the other. If America came anywhere close to death, or if his government actually collapsed by Russian hands completely, Spain didn't even want to think of what England might do to Russia, or even anyone who didn't assist in the search for his brother.

Spain honestly couldn't imagine the overly hyper American dead, dying, or even hurt in anyway, but the reports of brutal torture were hard not to believe in times like this, and underestimating the enemy's ability was never a wise idea. Still, the mental image of the bright young blonde lying in a cell somewhere, bleeding out and wasting away could enrage and horrify any nation, especially someone like Spain, who had some much to lose if _anything _went wrong in the rescue of the captured nations.

Every night, Spain had nightmares of what those Russian monsters were doing to his little Roma. Even though he knew he couldn't do anything to Russia in neutrality, Spain swore to himself that if the man or any of his people even _touched _his Italian tomato, they would die by his axe in _seconds_. He had no hesitation in action, if only his boss and his other superiors would agree and join the war.

It was probably going to take Russia actually attacking Spain for him to enter the war, but he knew that everyone was sick and tired of the Russian beating up the world. Spain felt confident that the entire world needed was a push in the right direction for things to start going right. Russia obviously wasn't going to be talked out of fighting, but a revolution was coming soon, Spain could feel it.

"Wasn't it one of Amerique's presidents who said that 'those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable?'" a voice sounded from behind him.

"France, mi amigo?" Spain turned to face the Frenchman walking onto to his porch, "What is it? Shouldn't you be with England or something?"

"It's Francis, mon ami," Francis corrected, "And I've come to ask for your help."

The Spaniard sighed, "You know I can't do anything if my people don't agree."

"But do _you _agree?" Francis questioned.

"Of course _I _want to do something, they have my little Roma after all," Spain sat back down, "But my hands are tied."

"Please, Spain," the Frenchman looked him in the eye, "At least try to convince them. According to Toris, the commander of the base the captured nations are being held at, a Commander Smirnov, was killed and our dear friends have managed to hole themselves up in their prison as a protection. No one can hurt them now but starvation and themselves. They've given us what we need to revolt, all we must do is act on it."

"I'm sorry, Francis, but I must wait," he sadly smiled, "You see, for the longest time I've been such a coward, I think my people have forgotten how strong I used to be, and that's why they prefer to stay out. I think once you all start going, I can convince my people to fight. Just don't die till I get their, mi amigo."

Francis smiled, "Of course. Does this mean I will have your support, Spain?"

"Eventually," he stood up and went to go inside, "Maybe you could even con Prussia into helping if we try together."

"A trio to be reckoned with, mon ami," Francis smiled.

Spain stopped, "Oh and Francis?"

"Oui?"

The Spaniard thought for moment, "Call me Antonio. And visit more often, I need to share my churros with someone, anyway." And then he left the laughing Frenchman on his porch.

"Who knows?" France chuckled as he walked to his car, "_Un lâche traite souvent un coup mortel aux braves._ Maybe a coward is just what we need."

…_.Part 4: Numb…._

_If people can't deal with their problems, they numb themselves a little bit._

_Kevin Nealon_

…

Lovi ached all over.

The throbbing in his upper leg was killing him, but worse still was the feeling in his left leg. Never before had he ever felt such a feeling of _nothing_, and he took it as a bad thing.

You were supposed to feel your body, right? Or maybe he was just losing it. The pain had to be getting to him.

If he forced his blood shot eyes open, he could see his leg, so Elizabeta didn't have to cut it off. But then why couldn't he feel it? It was much better than complete, blinding pain like the feeling his lower chest, but pain would be better than the torture of not knowing what was wrong with him.

He couldn't move, any part of his body, but Lovino could feel his surroundings well. There was a warm mass snuggling against his chest that he took a wild guess that it was Peter. The little nation had pulled one of Lovino's arms over him like a blanket, and had his face buried in the Italian's bloody shirt, sleeping peacefully. Lovino would have found it quite cute in any other situation than the one they were currently in.

Lovino tried to move his arm a little tighter around the small boy, but finding it much too painful to do so and he sighed quietly.

"Lovi?" Peter perked up slightly, a little sleepily, "You awake?"

"Um…" he mumbled, eyes still closed, "Uh huh, go back to sleep, kid."

Peter ignored him and sat up slightly, "Do you feel alright? You're not in pain are you? Where does it hurt? Do you want me to get Roderich?"

"No, Peter," he smiled slightly, ignoring the piercing pain in his chest, "Don't worry. 'm okay. Go back to sleep."

"I thought you were dead," he once again ignored him, instead burying his head in Lovino's shirt again, "I thought you left me."

"I'm not leaving anyone," the Italian looked down at him, "Don't worry."

Peter hesitated, "Promise you won't die while I'm asleep?"

"I swear," Lovino whispered, "Now sleep."

The little Sealander slowly fell asleep hugging Lovino's chest, clutching his shirt tightly.

Lovino sighed and clenched his eyes closed. Peter reminded him so much of his own little brother, it hurt. He want to just see Veneziano again one more time, just in case he didn't make it out of here alive. Lovi knew his brother would be upset with his injures and would be fusing over him for a long time, but just to see him one more time; it would make him so happy.

He mind drifted for a moment. What would happen if he _did _die down here? Would anyone mourn? Would he be missed? Veneziano would probably cry and throw himself at that potato bastardo. Germany might be a little upset, but he'd get over it. And Spain would…

Spain would be devastated. Lovino knew that idiot was overly emotional and he seemed to care about him. If he died, Lovino knew the Spaniard's world wouldn't fall to pieces, but Spain probably had no idea. The idiot would cry and cry and cry and eat a tomato, then cry some more. He would blame himself and hole himself up somewhere while he wasted away on pizza and beer. Maybe Francis and Prussia would come and drag him out to see sun light, then he'd go back to normal and forget about him.

Lovino didn't really mind, a lot of people forgot about him. Everyone loved Veneziano; he was the cute, adorable half that everyone wanted to protect. Lovino had always been the weird, odd half that was known for nothing but cheese and the mafia. The world wouldn't be that affected without him.

The world would keep turning on its axis like always. The world wouldn't stop for him. It would go on. And no one would be benefited or deteriorated by it.

Still, Lovino hoped very much that maybe, _just maybe_, someone was actually missing him desperately, like England missed Peter and Alfred, France missed Mathieu, and how Germany and Prussia would miss Roderich and Elizabeta.

He realized that he might be cutting his brother and Spain short a bit, but what else was he supposed to think? He was used to being forgotten.

Peter interrupted him as he snuggled closer to his chest.

Lovino looked at him sadly. No, no one would miss him. But he had to survive. For his little brothers. Both of them.


	15. Part 5-6

**A/N: I realize that this has absolutely nothing to do with the story, but I started French class today and we all had to pick a French name if our name wasn't actually French. After I picked my name (Louise), I was looking at the male names, and I found Mathieu. I silently squealed like a little school girl till my teacher looked at me oddly. XD Just wanted to share. To be honest I thought I was spelling it wrong for a while there.**

**While I'm here, I would like to mention that the majority of this act is going to be out of the prison. Now that Smirnov is dead (BTW, I was happy dancing when he died too), nothing really interesting is happening there other than general despair and starvation. I also think this is a good time to help Iggy and Francy-Pants raise some forces and kick butt! :D (And add characters, but kicking butt is so much more important in my mind).**

**I was also wondering if I should give the presidents, prime ministers, and such names. I don't plan on using actual people, because we aren't actually on the verge of WW3, so it doesn't make sense to me. But I feel that I may be confusing you a little bit with the non-descriptive use of minor characters. I had to give the president a name here because, well, the letter would be a little weird if he just signed it 'The President', now wouldn't it?**

**Since I'm here, mind as well do a disclaimer:**

**In the words of Paulo Coelho;**

I'd have stopped writing years ago if it were for the money.

Paulo Coelho

**Oh well, **_**salut! **_**Bye!**

…_.Part 5: Jacket …._

_Things do not pass for what they are, but for what they seem. Most things are judged by their jackets._

_Baltasar Gracian_

…

Arthur sat down behind his desk, smiling gaily.

The revolt was going well, even without any help. The rebel forces had driven the Russians out of parts of their land, and they were making major head way. If Arthur and Francis were to intervene and provide support, they actually may have a chance. After that conquest, saving the others would be simple.

Organizing forces wouldn't be difficult. Everyone, civilian or soldier, neutral or against, they were completely disgusted and fed-up with Russia. And most of them knew that they had to rescue the other countries before they brought down their captor. What they needed now more than anything was a full on alliance among nations to put Russia in his place.

"Francis," the Brit looked over to the Frenchman in his office chair, "Would you call a UN meeting for me? I have some things I need to do here."

"Do I look like your secretary?" Francis rolled his eyes but stood nonetheless, "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you," he smiled and leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, ignoring the prickle of Francis' stubble as he kissed his cheek as he left. Normally Arthur would have been completely and utterly enraged by such an action, but today wasn't a day for anger, so he let the Frenchman off with a weak slap on the shoulder and a half-hearted 'frog'.

When Francis was gone, Arthur stood, stretched and let a bright, happy smile come across his face. He chuckled slightly, looking once again to the pictures on his desk, "Don't worry boys, I'm almost there. Almost there."

The Brit grabbed his coat and walked out the door into the London air.

As always, there was a misty breeze blowing past, but a large scent of smog also penetrated the city. Everything was alive and abuzz with action, like his people were celebrating the new chance the world was receiving right along with Arthur. His people's exuberance and hope made Arthur feel so alive and young again; he almost found himself skipping before he caught himself.

The only thing that could make this better would be if Russia surrendered completely and his boys were back. Of course, Arthur really didn't expect anything like that, but it was a thought that kept him going. They just kept getting closer and closer to saving the captives, and they needed that to happen soon.

Arthur went down the street happily, a swing in his step he didn't know was missing. He walked the few blocks till he came to the newsstand.

"Today's paper, please," he threw the boy running the stand a few pounds, "Any one will do."

He thanked the boy as he walked away, telling him to keep the change. Arthur walked down the street towards his final destination, Buckingham Palace.

The Brit smiled as he looked down to the newspaper. The cover was graced by the faces of both Canada's prime minister and America's president. The men had officially announced revolution against their oppressors hold. Neither smiled, but it was still a great joy to the world that at least some bit of normality could stay in the form of the press. Those wonderful little worms were digging their way into the America's to interview anyone they could talk to, and bring information out. The press were becoming amateur spies, in a way, and it was allowing forces to go in and out of their countries.

Arthur tucked the newspaper under his arm and walked straight into the palace.

No one stopped him from walking into the royal dining room, where he knew his crown family was eating breakfast. He simply greeted the guards kindly before walking in.

"Good morning, Arthur," the queen nodded, sipping her tea, "I trust you didn't sleep at all."

"Not a wink," the nation smiled as he sat down, "Has there been any new developments overnight?"

The king put down his fork, "Nothing necessarily news worthy. A few contacts between us and Canada were received during the night. The US has been involved as well, but to a much lesser extent. The attacks have been devastating to their forces and their mentality in general."

Arthur sighed, his happy mood slightly depleted but still there, "From what I was told by other nations, that's been the case for a while. But they've always been strong buggers. With a little help, I'm sure they will be back to their over-confident selves after some time."

"Maybe, maybe," the queen smiled sadly, "I do faintly recall their nation. Nice lad, a little odd, bit a good boy."

"Everyone's heart is hurting for them, Arthur," the king looked at him, "It's isn't just you. Don't worry."

"I'm not worrying that much right now, to be honest," the Brit mused slightly, "Frankly, I can't do anything until we get help, so worrying makes no sense. We're getting closer and closer. I just want my brothers back."

The royals finished their food and stood, soon followed by Arthur. The king snapped his finger and a butler handed him a package, "This was one of the messages we received from across the pond. It's from the States, but that is all we know. I haven't opened it, but it's addressed to you."

Arthur was slightly confused, but he took the package anyway.

"Don't open it till your out of the palace, if you would," the queen commented as she turned with her husband, "And take the rest of the day off."

"I-" he started before thinking better of it, "Yes, your Highness."

He slipped the bundle under his arm, walking out of the door.

Arthur wandered around London for a while after that, the package still under his arm. The Brit, for some reason, felt like waiting a while before opening it, but eventually, he found himself sitting outside of a small café at a table, sipping tea.

He placed the package on the table and stared at it for a long time. After a while, he gently started to undo the packaging. After he broke the second layer of paper, his thumb hit something soft and cold.

The only intelligible thought he had once he recognized the soft leather was _Oh my god_.

He eased the leather coat out of the paper, breathlessly running his hand over the worn fabric. The bomber jacket smelled like it had been washed, so the familiar scent of burgers and grease was gone, so was the ketchup stains and the mud that normally graced its surface. It was zipped to the top, pocket's buttoned, and fixed in other such ways by someone's caring, nimble hand.

The Englishman stopped in his examination upon the discovery of a small envelope in the front pocket. Arthur gently flipped it open;

_Mr. Kirkland (that's what my assistant told me your going by these days but I'm not sure, so I'll apologize in advance):_

_He asked me to send you this when I could. I wish I could have gotten it to you sooner, but there were much more important things at the time. I apologize if it was damaged at all; when we were escaping to a secure location from the Russians, it was slightly burned and the left sleeve was caught on a hook. I admit, I should have been a bit more careful, but the first lady was able to lend a hand on that note. Georgia was quite kind in repairing it the best she could. My sons found your brother's coat to be quite a fun play thing, as little Frankie doesn't have much to do around here and John is just trying not to be annoyed by the forced solitude. My youngest seems to like playing hero in it, but I managed to hang it up on a wall for a while for safe keeping._

_I realize this letter is a bit more personal then I should be penning at a time like this, but my mind keeps focusing on victims in this pointless fight whenever I find enough time to do anything like this. I do hope that we can meet in person after this is over, and I very much appreciate all that you and your people are doing for us. I only ask now that you take care of his coat and make sure he gets it back. And when you do act, take care of America. We can handle our nation, but I don't think he can handle himself._

_-Abraham T. Johnson_

_President of the United States of America_

Arthur tucked the note into his back pocket before standing and throwing out the wrapping paper. He put the coat over his shoulder and started back for his home.

"When they get back, Alfred will be fine, Mr. President," Arthur smiled, happy mood unfazed, "This coat belongs to my little brother, and he isn't one to give up that easily. He'll be fine very soon."

…_.Part 6: And So We Begin…._

_Your present circumstances don't determine where you can go; they merely determine where you start._

_Nido Qubein_

…

"Bonjour!" Francis smiled to the other nations in front of him, "I hope you're all feeling a bit better than before."

"Please cut the formalities, aru," China complained, "We all know why we're here, so let's just get it over with."

Arthur sighed and leaned back in his seat, "Now that a revolt has finally started against Russia, it's time to act. I am prepared to do whatever it takes to stop his attacks on us and his captives."

"As am I," Francis said, "We want to know who else will help us."

Italy almost jumped from his seat, "You're going to save Romano, si?"

"We're going to save them all, Italy," Arthur smiled, knowing that Italy was on their side.

"I will-"

"Consider," Germany interrupted, "We need to hear your plan first, before any of us make any rash decisions."

Francis stood, "That sounds very logical, Germany. But we have no plan."

"See, Italy!" Prussia laughed, "They have no chance."

"We have no chance as we stand," Arthur commented, standing beside Francis, "We don't have the forces to do anything, and we didn't want to make any specific plans and change them later due to lack of support," the Brit scoffed, "I have done this a few times you know."

"So you want us to blindly jump into battle on your order, aru?" China commented, sternly, "We would have no benefit in a group attack. Together our numbers are only slightly larger than Russia's, and their troops are just as trained as ours. We have no chance."

"We've had 'no chance' before," Francis pointed out, "Twice, actually."

Prussia snorted, "And you surrendered one of those time, actually."

"But that is the past, mon ami," Francis ignored the snarky comment, "We can't just sit back and let Russia destroy the world. We have never let our oppressors do so before, why should this be any different? It's us against Russia. We have a chance. A small chance, granted, but still a chance."

"Alright, France," Prussia sighed, "What would you say we do then?"

"We need to do as we always do," Arthur answered for him, "We first free the captured nations. Start in Africa and Asia, but I suggest avoiding Russia's borders and other regions were his hold is very strong. While we're at it, we should strengthen our own borders to try and slow him down. After that's accomplished, we set our sights on South America and work our way up."

"I thought you'd want to go directly for America and Canada, since that's were there holding the prisoners, aru," China raised an eyebrow.

The Brit clenched a fist under the table, "I do. I want nothing more than to save them. But I know that if we immediately attack an area with such a firm Russian hold, we would exhaust our forces too quickly and we would stand no chance at all. All we need is to play our cards right, but we need cards to play the game first."

"Is that what this is, then," Japan questioned, "Is it some kind of game to you?"

"No!" Francis stopped him, "That is as far from the truth as it can be! There are lives at stake. Not just the boys, but Austria and Hungary too! And Italy's brother! They are all in danger. Plus all the other nations under Russia's control. And their people are even more vulnerable than our kind. The sooner we act, the less people will have to die."

"I don't want anyone to die either, aru," China shook his head, "But what if our actions are just in vain? What we just anger him even more than he is? It could be calamitous."

"And it could be calamitous if we _don't_ act, China," Arthur pressed, "It's as simple as that. I would rather go down fighting, than to live under a madman's rule. No matter what you choose, I am going to do something, even if I have to do it myself."

"_We _will act with or without you," Francis stood behind the Brit, "But the more help we have, the better a fight we can give."

"Who will assist us?" Arthur looked to all of them.

China picked up his things and stood, "I think you are insane, aru. Our past alliances have always worked out, but I cannot see it working out for the best," he went to leave, "Come on, Japan."

"No, China," Japan stood, "I am staying."

"W-What?" China stopped, shocked.

"Japan?" Arthur questioned, "Are you on board then?"

"Yes," the Japanese man smiled, "I see no reason that we cannot at least try to stop Russia."

China grew angry, "You were so against, aru! What changed your mind?"

"It's a quirk," he smiled, "I always say no. I think it would be better to form some kind of resistance instead of just lying down and wait to be taken over."

"Your just as insane as they are, aru!" China stormed out, "Have fun dying without me!"

When the Chinese man was gone, Italy stood up, "I will help in any way I can, as long as it can help Romano and Miss Hungary! Oh and Mr. Austria, too!"

"Thank you, Italy," Francis chuckled and squeezed his shoulder, "Your brother would be proud."

"Italy, what are you thinking?" Germany argued, "You can get hurt!"

Italy smiled, "Ve~! Germany, don't worry so much! I'm a lot stronger when I'm angry, I just wanna save my big brother and the others. No one hurts my family."

"…then I will help as well," Germany started at the smiling brunette as his spoke to the others, "What about you bruder?"

"I think your all crazy in the most unawesomest way," Prussia shrugged, "But Spain told me about how you recruited him earlier. I can't have my best friends going into an awesome battle without me. You can count the awesome me in."

Francis laughed and hugged him briefly, "Mon ami, I cannot thank you enough."

"Thank me after we win," Prussia sighed, "But I don't want to just sit here unawesomely waiting. What do we do now?"

"Like I said early," Arthur explained, walking over to the chalkboard they always kept in the room, "Africa and Asia will be our first targets. I would suggest we start with lower areas in Africa, Russia wouldn't expect that. Of course, it would be quite difficult to assemble our troops so far away without anyone noticing. It might be better to do a dual attack on the countries nearest us to a lesser extend to distract Russia while we send men down south by sea," Arthur finished his graph and turned, "Any objections?"

"Nein, except for one," Germany asked, "I think it might be wise to send some supplies to the America's. If we're lucky, they might be able to free themselves and save us the time."

"No," Arthur shook his head, much to everyone's surprise, "If we send them to anyone, we should send them to China."

"Why?" Japan questioned, "His supplies are ample, and he probably would not accept them anyway. America-san's country is in dire need of assistance, and his brother's is not much better."

Francis examined his nails, "China refuses to join us in fighting, which means that he is fighting alone. If China falls to Russia's hands, it's one more country in his hands. Even if China doesn't want to work with us, it is much better that he is free than captured. The America's are already captured, so if we focus on one of their nations, and we fail to rescue them, then we had no gain or loss. If we can save China, it would be a much greater gain."

"It's simple logic," Arthur explained, "The ground is much larger than just in Europe. We need to think strategically and carefully before we act. Patience is key to us all making it out of this alive."

They all nodded in agreement. Other minor plans were made over the course of the afternoon, mostly formalities and agreeing to send certain supplies to others. Everyone seemed a bit uncomfortable with the odd alliance they had just made, but they all knew why.

By this point in a treaty, there was normally a chipper American talking about his insane and impossible ideas, usually involving superheroes that didn't exist or giant lasers destroying the enemy, and his northern twin sitting quietly beside him until he would eventually get fed up with the American and he would hit him with a hockey stick.

Compared to normal, it was so calm. It was almost unnatural, but they weren't even arguing. To anyone else, cooperation was a good thing, but to the nations it just showed how serious their mission was.

With the other nations MIA, the world was quiet. A quiet world wasn't right at all. The world was supposed to be lively and active, but people should be disagreeing among the fun. That's why no one could rule the world. If Russian gained control of everyone, then not only would the nations themselves be in deep trouble, but the people would lose the things that made them who they were. The world would be silent and complaint to anything that they were told to do, but people aren't meant to be like that. They needed to argue and resist against something, or at least question things. But with the lack of people willing to do the unlikely, it seemed like that world was closer than they could think.

But they were going to do something about it.


	16. Part 7-8

…_.Part 7: Literary…._

_To understand a literary style, consider what it omits._

_Mason Cooley_

…_._

He slipped the rough green uniform on like it was a second skin, and instantly felt safer than he had in a long time.

Arthur didn't know if it was just him that thought like that, but the feeling of being ready to fight back made him feel awake and alert. The army uniform he had was just so natural to him, it was almost like he never took it off.

He had woken up early that morning so that he could look his best, as any English gentleman would, despite knowing that such an appearance would never last in battle, but it was better to start off on the right foot. Arthur had always taken great pride in his proper attire, and he planned on keeping it going.

The best part of dawning his uniform again was the reason; they were almost ready. Their newest alliance, a G6 in a way, was preparing to fight. Francis had told Spain that their alliances had been finalized, and the Spaniard was quick to act.

Antonio had already declared war on Russia and he sent a large naval fleet in the direction of Russia's occupied areas in Africa and Asia. A simple word from the nations and they would be ready to act.

Arthur smiled as he flattened the wrinkles on his jacket. Just a little longer, then he'd end this horrible war and be done with it. He'd take the boys home, reunited Francis with his brother, and rip out whatever was in the pathetic hole where Russia's heart was supposed to be and feed it to his cat.

"Angleterre~!" Francis popped his thought bubble.

Arthur turned to him, "What, frog?"

"I just wanted to see how you were doing," the Frenchman smiled. He looked over his friends uniform, "I take it your ready then?"

"Born that way," the Brit brushed nonexistent dirt from his shoulder, "I see you are as well."

Francis waved his purple sleeves happily, "I am quite glad to say I am! It feels splendid to be doing something, oui?"

"Quite," Arthur smiled, "The sooner we start, the sooner this is over."

"Exactly so," Francis snaked an arm around him, "Victory has never been closer than it is now, mon ami! We're so close, I can practically feel it."

"We've been saying that for days, frog," the Briton scoffed, "This is the moment when we actually get to do something."

"Oui, but I know that this is our moment, Angleterre," Francis practically glowed, "We _will _save them, and we _will_ be the victors."

Arthur chuckled, "Haven't I been saying that all along? I never had a doubt."

"Of course," Francis laughed, "Regardless, it's time. No more delays, no more plans to make, no more work. Just action."

"We just have to win," Arthur sighed, stretching as he walked into the hallway, "That part itself isn't as hard as it may sound, the difficult part would be setting it up."

Francis followed him, "Quoi? And what would that mean, Angleterre?"

"Simple," the Brit walked to his kitchen and put tea on the kettle, "We follow the strategy we already have established with the others first, weakening Russia in the areas that matter most. Without Africa and Asia, we would cut off their major supply shipments and crumble a large part in his empire. The less land he has, the less _chance _we give him."

"I know all that," Francis scoffed, sitting at the table, "This isn't exactly my first time in a situation like this."

"Of course," Arthur poured himself a cup of tea and sat beside him, "But there is more to my madness."

"And what might that be?"

Arthur smiled, taking a sip, "Once our plan gets to that point, we stop and regroup. Once we regain our foot hold in the two continents, Russia will by that point at least know that we aren't going down without a fight. Once we can get that through that thick head of his, than we wait a little while. I've watched several wars like this unfold just like an ever predictable, amateur drama written by an inexperienced writer.

The plot curves in odd ways that never make much sense," he mused, starring into his cuppa, "But the story line is always the same. A power hungry oppressor, a group of a few people who wait too long to act, and the poor souls caught in the crossfire. The oppressor always gets a large gain before he falls. The Americas were that gain, and Russia's time is up. This time, the story hasn't changed at all, despite the twist in character roles. Of course, Russia is our insane antagonist, you, our allies, and myself are the fools who plan to play hero and stop him, while our boys and the others are our victims."

"Your story seems like a gruesome one, mon ami," Francis stated, understanding his friends speech.

"Indeed," the Brit said, "But even you know the next point in the story, as I'm sure everyone does," he finished his tea in a single gulp, "Our alliance with Feli, Ludwig, Antonio, and Kiku was the rising action, the most important and highest point in this tale, now the action begins, the current rises to the next act, and somewhere, our lives rest in the hands of Fate as he pens this gruesome tale. In every crime drama I have ever read, from Sir Conan Doyle's' Sherlock Holmes to Alfred's Edgar Allen Poe's many mysteries, there must always be a point where the truth spills out, and some kind of twisted, sickening justice must come out eventually."

"So what do you say will happen now, Angleterre?"

"Why, now the story finally begins."

_...Part 8: Excuses …._

_Several excuses are always less convincing than one._

_Aldous Huxley_

…

China was not a happy man.

He held his gun defensively as he held his ground among the gun fire. His country was under attack at all times these days, and it seemed like it would never end.

"To your left, aru!" he screamed to one of his men, shooting an oppressing troop as he shouted.

China tried to ignore the sound of bodies hitting the ground as a brief silence came through the battle, instead simply aiming again to try and make a dent in Russia's forces (even though he really doubted he could do much though.)

The Russian army was advancing slowly, but surely towards them, and China knew there was nothing he could do about it.

His pride refused to allow any assistance from the other nations in any form, and China just couldn't find it in his heart to believe England's rescue plan. Frankly he was too tired to fight in any land other than his own.

There was no other cause he would fight for other than his own life. As greedy as it sounded, China was over 4000 year old. He knew that the only way to survive is to fend for yourself and to never underestimate the enemy. He had tried to follow the Western way of 'alliances' and 'diplomacy', but this war was different.

Their attacker was winning, and their attacker was _Russia_. Every nation knew by this point that Russia was insane, but frankly, China wasn't surprised by his neighbor's actions.

Russia had probably been planning this invasion for a while now, making China wonder why no one was prepared. Maybe they thought that after two world wars they could get it right, but obviously Russia was a few steps ahead of them in all ways. As far as China saw it, this mess should have never happened in the first place, but now that it was, China felt the only thing left to do was defend.

There really was no hope, but he wasn't going to lie down and let Russia win easily. The Chinese man was going to defend his home with everything he had, no matter the costs, but he wasn't going to help the others.

It wasn't that he didn't care about the nations Russia was holding hostage, but China had to save his own skin before he could help anyone else. Deep down, he felt a little cowardly, but he felt like this was the right thing to do. None of this would be happening if those damn Europeans would just stay in their own land! If they could do that, then China felt certain that none of this would be happening.

He was suddenly pulled out of his thoughts by a loud bang behind him. China was thrown backwards from the blast, towards the enemy slightly, till he hit a tree dead on. He heard his back crack a little when he collided with the wood, but his instinct and current adrenaline rush push him onward, allowing him to struggle back to a safer area.

"Move back!" he shout to his troops, "There is no use dying today when we can fight tomorrow, aru!"

The men nodded as they collected what injured men they could. China took up the back of the group in their retreat, shooting off any enemy that followed them.

It took them a grueling hour to retreat back to their base. Once they arrived, the injured were rushed off to the medics, soldier went to report to their superiors, and China himself went and plopped down on his cot.

These past few weeks had been more than exhausting, but there was little time for rest in war. At most he might have two to three hours of sleep before his boss would call him to a different battle front to try and boost they're troops moral. He really didn't know what they wanted him to do, may they thought that him simply fighting alongside them might help their spirits, but China couldn't help but think that all it did was lower his own spirit more than it did raise anyone elses.

China just wanted this to end. Of course, an end would only come when there was a victor and a loser. Really, it didn't matter to China who won; if Russia succeeded in his goal, then he would most likely end up as his northern neighbor's little vacation home, but if the others defeated him, then China would end up as the coward who refused to fight. He lost either way, and in a way he probably walked into it.

Joining a fruitless war was not on his to-do list. Surviving was, as well as protecting his people, their interests, and their prosperity. To others he may be a greedy jerk for not helping to end this war, but they couldn't blame him for wanting to ensure his own safety.

All of them had done so in the past, even their American always came in the wars last. Why should he be any different? Frankly, he knew Russia well, and China had no wish to fall. He was a strong, proud nation, and he had been around long enough to know how to handle that. There were times to fight and times to let someone else do it for him.

If self-preservation was a crime, than let this be his only sin.


	17. Parts 9-10

_**I would just like to say a short little AN before the beginning of this chapter;**_

_**This is a story, not an essay or a rant of my opinions. I don't condone torture of any kind, and I most certainly do not think Russian's act anything like this. I understand that some people take offense to racism on any level, but if they do, then this really isn't the right anime to be watching. I struggle to write for Russia, I admit he isn't portrayed perfectly, but I want him to be canon to the series. I don't have any bad opinions of the Russians, in fact, my best friend on the planet was adopted from Russia. I am very VERY sorry if I offend anyone by what I write, but I can't help it if my antagonist turns out to seem a little too sinister, that's what I am to make the villain appear as. I really only selected Russia as my villain because I wanted to try and be 'original' in other ways (which I fear I failed to do) and put less focus on making the choice of villain seem plausible. Most fangirls can see the Hetalia Russia taking over the world as he does say he wants to be one with everyone a lot.**_

_**If I offend you in anyway, I am very sorry. But, if you choose to express that to me, I'd be very grateful if you didn't do so anonymously. Unlike some authors, I don't like to complain about bad reviews, but I do have a habit of giving explanations for my mistakes (as some of my readers know well) and private PMing saves both me and the review from any… well, this.**_

_**Again, really sorry, but I still will write the story as I originally planned.**_

_**(BTW, I always forget to say how much your good reviews brighten up my day, so I'll put a little thank you here to make you feel a little better if I bummed you out up there)**_

_**P.S.- I changed my mind about not including anything about the prisoners in this act. I remembered my slight obsession with BelAme at the beginning of this story, and how I mentioned there would be some in this. Most of my original pairings are more so going to be in the sequel to this (yes, I did say sequel). But, Belarus is a character I have little practice writing for, so I want to introduce her and Ukraine so that I can get used to them.**_

…_.Part 9: Ridiculous…._

_I know that plans and reality may be two different things, but I think my demands on life are minimal._

_Moshe Dayan_

…_.._

It didn't take long to organize their troops and to set off.

For once, their bosses didn't want their nations in battle, as they didn't want to loss anymore personifications. Instead they had a control center set up in London from which they had gathered together quite rapidly. They're groups main players sat around their normally shaped table, papers and manila folders littering its surface as well as a stray coffee mug every so often.

The nations themselves weren't too happy that they were physically in battle at the moment, but they were all glad that they at least had a role in their attacks.

This was turning into a people's war. Rebellions, riots, injustice, and other horrors were breaking out globally. The people needed to know something was going to happen fast, and that was where the nations were going to come in. They were to order attacks and advances on their command, as they _were _personifications, and they did know a bit more about the situation at the moment. Of course their decisions had to go through their bosses in the end, but they at least had a fair bit of control in their attacks, which was a major change from most other wars, in which they were more like puppets for the public eye.

They planned to use full force to bring their enemies down quickly to avoid any more tragedy for themselves and their people. The nations agreed earlier to not try and take any spoils of war, as well, considering that it normally only angered someone enough for another war to happen. When they succeed, all they wanted was to restore the world to its normal order and semi-peace. Russia… they were going to leave that to his people. No one can kill a nation, and frankly they didn't _want _to. He'd just come back anyway, and he'd be slightly unhappy to say the least.

Regardless of their plans, at the moment they had other issues.

"I thought we agreed earlier that we would attack as soon as possible!" Arthur practically growled, "We don't have any time to lose!"

"We must think our plans through carefully," Ludwig argued, "We may not have much time, but the more prepared we are, the less we will have to waste on several various attacks. If we can use a few well planned offenses, than we have much less defense to work out."

The Brit stood, "I refuse to sit here idly and twiddle my thumbs. This is a time for action, not more meetings so we can _talk _about action!"

"Mon cher," Francis tried to calm him down, "We have enough time to at least listen-"

"Don't you _dear _me, Francis!" Arthur ignored his second comment, "I want action, not more talking."

"You must be patient," Kiku warned, "If we act in a rush, than we may do worse harm than good for them."

Arthur was silent for a few seconds before sitting down again, "As long as we take action soon, I am for whatever you want."

"Awesome," Gilbert smiled, "Then we may finish our plan."

"Japan," Ludwig stood beside his brother, "I trust that you and Italy can provide assistance and medical care to the Asian continent?"

"Hai, that is a simple task," Kiku bowed slightly.

Feliciano was much less willing, "I don't wanna sit by and wait, Ludwig!" the Italian complained, "I wanna help save Romano!"

"You can help a lot, Feli," Ludwig sighed, "You can help but not here. Go with Japan."

"No!" Feliciano put his foot down, "You just don't me in battle because I'm not as strong as you, but I'm not going to stop until I find my big brother!"

The German sweatdropped, knowing that there was no way to sway the Italian from his goal, "…Fine, but you will not move without my order."

"Ve~! Thank you, Germany!" Feli hugged him, his bad mood quick fading.

"Anyway," Ludwig went back to his plan, "The rest of us will begin to retake our own lands that have been invaded. Feliciano and I shall also begin to invade as much of northern Africa as we can, while Arthur and Antonio can manage the lower half. Hopefully we will meet somewhere in the middle."

"That seems a bit… hair-brained for you, Ludwig," Antonio commented.

"Well, every practical idea I could come up with didn't seem like a very good idea," Ludwig commented, "But I believe if we play our cards the right way, then we will be more than successful."

Arthur smiled wryly, "Now whose the one thinking rashily? Hm?"

"Well, someone has too put an idea out there," Ludwig rolled his eyes, "And this is the best option I can think of. A swift and strong attack of our forces might be able to upsurge the hold on Africa and Europe. If we can do that, more nations may see that we have a chance and might help us fight. It's our best option."

"I'm for your plan," Arthur said, staring him down, "It's better than anything I had," he turned to the others, "I'll second the motion. The vote is?"

Francis leaned back, "I will agree as well."

"Si, I as well," Antonio smiled.

"Ve~!" was Feliciano's happy reply (they took it as a 'yes'…)

"Then we are all agreed?" Kiku asked.

"Well," Arthur smiled, gaily, "The ayes have it. We attack in the morning."

"Yea!" Feli cheered, "We're going to save Romano!"

"And Elizabeta," Prussia whispered under his breath.

"And mon petit lapin," Francis silently sighed.

"I'm finally going to save you, boys," Arthur struggled to contain his joy, "We're coming for you."

…_.Part 10: …._

_A person who deserves my loyalty receives it._

_Joyce Maynard_

…_.._

"Argh!" an angry male voice sounded from behind the wall, "Damn it!"

Belarus listened from her room as her precious big brother had another melt down.

Russia had been having such stress-caused fits a lot recently, their doctor saying it was probably from his sudden growth in size, as well as the revolutions and invasions that were starting up in his new 'territories'. His mental state had been between a semi-mad man and a loving brother had been tittering on a thin edge as of late, but there was nothing they could do for him.

Belarus knew Russia was going downhill. She loved her big brother so much, but the facts were there. Despite what some people thought, she wasn't a stupid girl who had a thing for incest. While she _did _have a thing for incest, Belarus had morals, but she was just a bit overly trusting. She would do whatever it took to make the person she loved happy.

Sadly, it seemed that her love was losing his mind.

"What am I doing wrong?" she heard her brother knock something over in his room, "Why won't they just surrender?"

She wanted so much to run into his room and comfort him, tell him that he was going to win, that she loved him so much, but Belarus knew that it would do nothing more but make his emotions flip again. She had no wish to play roulette with her Russian's mentality tonight, so she just sat quietly on her bed.

Trying to sleep would be impossible, what with all the rage filled noise in the room beside her, so the Belarusian simply laid down and stared at her ceiling for a while. She took in the patterns of the tiles for almost an hour, absentmindedly flattening her night gown every once in a while or playing with her long silver hair.

"Sister?" a whisper broke the silence as her door opened, "Are you here?"

"What do you want, Ukraine?" Belarus called, not needing to look up to know it was her eldest sibling.

The farmer girl sat down on her bed, "I-I just wanted to make sure you were alright…"

"And?" the Belarusian questioned.

"Trade rooms with me," the Ukrainian implored, "I don't want you to have to listen to brother go on like this. It's not healthy."

"Don't worry so much, sister," Belarus scoffed, turning on her side, "It doesn't matter anyway, I won't be here for much longer."

"Why?" Ukraine asked, confused.

Belarus flipped over again and looked at her, "Brother has asked me to take the place of his deceased commander in his prison camp across the Atlantic. Big brother said something about having 'a firmer grip on the dogs' or something like that. I leave in the morning."

"You can't go, sister!" Ukraine argued, "It's dangerous, you don't know what's out there."

"I know enough," Belarus scoffed, "If brother wants me to go I will. I will stop the revolt that is hurting big brother so much, and I will crush the ones that dare defy his will."

"…" Ukraine was silent for a moment, "I will not stop you sister."

"Do you love our brother anymore, sister," Belarus accused, "Are you not willing to die for him anymore?"

The Ukraine smiled, "I love you and Russia dearly, you know that, little sister, but I hate what his people are doing to him at the moment. It isn't his fault. His people are at odds, some supporting his official actions, others disgusted by them. I don't know which side to take, and I don't wish to take a side. He is my little brother, and I can never deny him what he sees fit. But I will not lose myself and my own wishes over that. Every once in a while, the bully needs to be told 'no', da?"

"…goodnight, sister," Belarus didn't say another word as she rolled over again and buried her head in the covers.

Ukraine smiled as she stood up, fixed her shirt button, then left.

"I love you big brother," Belarus whispered, "I will do your will."


	18. Parts 11-12

**I would just like you all to know that I am currently in love with Aleksey, and I am also mentally writing him an entire backstory despite how irrelevant it is… Just so you know… Also, you should know that I have two weird quirks; Obviously, I have a thing for quotes, and I love names that have symbolism. If anyone wants a major spoiler to keep them happy till next up date, look up the meaning of my new friend's name… also, who ever guesses where I got the cat's names from gets an invisible cookie.**

_….Part 11: Defender …._

_I remain your servant and I will do as you ask of me._

_Mangosuthu Buthelezi_

_….._

Belarus grumbled to herself slightly as her cell phone finally got reception. It seemed that placing overseas calls from the America's was becoming increasingly hard to do, especially to Russia.

She had only landed a few seconds ago in Canada, and was about to report to her big brother when the snow started to fall. Belarus sighed and put her phone back in her pocket as she stepped of the plane.

The Belarusian repressed a shiver as the cold northern winds blew against her skin. Belarus was used to cold temperatures from her own homeland, but the sadness and depression that hung over the air made her spine tingle. The area was dank and the night held a thick, looming blackness over her head. It was rather eerie, while mystifying all at the same time. It would amaze anyone, but she had a mission to accomplish.

She saw the base teeming with men and women, all in uniform. Some were bearing guns, others clip boards and lab coats, but all, Belarus could sense, were her big brother's people. They went along their daily business, ignoring the landing helicopter.

Belarus noticed a small group of three men running to the helicopter, hands over their heads to hold back the wind of the copter blades.

Two of the men wore standard uniform and carried guns at their sides, so Belarus took them to be guards at the least, but the third was obviously different.

He was a tall, bespectacled man, around his mid to late 20's. His hair was a dark shade of brown that was style to look spiky, and his bangs were held back by aviator goggles. His face was framed by a pair of worn, gunmetal gray glasses that he kept pushing up the bridge of his nose and he had a sword sheathe and a gun holster at his side

"Greetings, miss," the soldier walked out to help her down, "I-"

"I am your new commander," she barked, stepping down and brushing him aside, "I am under the authority of your nation, and you are to show me as much respect as your previous captain."

"Yes, ma'am," he nodded, "Would you like to be debriefed now or later?"

"Now," Belarus scoffed, "I see no point in waiting; you can start on the way."

The guards began to led her around the base, Belarus and the taller man leading with the two guards behind her. "We are currently housing dangerous enemies of the country in that large building over there," the soldier pointed to the school, "They are being held in the basement at the moment. A few months ago, one of the prisoners managed to attack our Commander Smirnov. They ganged up and killed him in cold blood, as well as a guard who was standing outside their cell. They have seized weaponry and ammunition from the corpses, and are holing themselves up in their cell on a standoff."

"For a month?" Belarus didn't look at them as she examined the building, "Are you too stupid to bring down a few scrawny, underfed prisoners, or do you have a plan?"

"We're starving them out," one of them piped up, "We were ordered not to kill them, and since they are immortal nations, starvation would be safest-"

"We aren't here for safe," Belarus hissed, "We are here to serve Russia, not play games. I want them brought out now. Search them, as well. I have a feeling that they couldn't make an attack without any contact with the outside, and I want to know who they were contacting, and how they did it under your noses."

"Understood," the soldier nodded and sent off a few men into the building, "Anything else?"

"I want to see them. Bring them to me once you're done searching them, and bring me anything of interest that you find," Belarus stared him down, "Can you manage that?"

"Da, of course," the soldier nodded again, pushing up his glasses, "I will send men out immediately."

"Good," Belarus stopped, "I take it you took charge when Smirnov was killed, then?"

"No," the man smiled, "I'm not much of a leader. I was the commander's assistant during his time, but I simply gave his men your brother's orders when he passed. I am merely a tool of my country."

"Very well," Belarus scoffed, "What is your name."

"Mallory," he bowed slightly, "Aleksey Mallory; I am here to help you in any way I can."

Belarus raised an eyebrow, "Mallory? That's not name is not familiar to me."

"Da, that is true," his smile never faltered, "My father was English, but he died when I was very small."

"Alright," Belarus sighed, dismissing the topic, "Then show me to my quarters, I will address the men tomorrow. For now I want to rest and compose myself before I confront the prisoners."

"Yes ma'am," Aleksey nodded. He motioned to the guards behind him, "Go and gather back up, then weed out the prisoners. Try not to injure them too much, and call when you have succeeded."

The guards nodded to him and walked off. Aleksey then started to led Belarus off toward the small house next to the school, "Commander Smirnov had been using this as a storage building of sorts before, but we recently changed it into a small shelter for base of commands. There are only currant two occupants; myself and our in-base messenger, Gav. I'm sure it will be suited to your needs as much as it does ours."

Belarus scoffed him off and walked forward, "I am not here for pleasure, Mr. Mallory, I am here to fulfill my brother's wishes."

"Of course," Aleksey smiled and opened the front door to the house.

The first thing that Belarus gathered from the house was the smell of cat and tea.

The entrance was spacious and open, with little dividing the areas besides furniture and counters. All of the walls were painted a light sepia color, and the only light in the room was cast by a small wood burning fireplace in the middle of the room, giving off a warm, soft feel. The kitchen, living room, and the dining area were almost wrapped around the fireplace in a 'c' shape, with the living room in the center and the kitchen on the left with the dining room on the opposite side. A stair case was in the far right side that led to the second floor.

"Does it meet your standards?" Aleksey asked.

"It will suffice," Belarus walked inside, "But what is that smell?"

The soldier looked at her, closing the door behind him, "Hm? I don't know what you're talking about, ma'am. I do not smell anything abnormal."

"I smell cats," the female nation pressed pointedly, "Why does it smell like cats in a military base?"

"Oh!" Aleksey laughed, "I guess that must be my cats!"

"Cats?" Belarus questioned indifferently, "You have cats on the base?"

He shrugged, "Well, some of them belonged to the family that lived in this house, and the rest I found wandering around. I just couldn't leave them around!"

"Calm down," she growled warningly, "You can keep your cats as long as they stay away from my quarters, da?"

"Da!" Aleksey nodded, "I will show you too your room then."

As he led her up, Belarus tuned the soldier out as he exuberantly spoke about his multiple cats.

"There's Helvetica, he's the youngest," he went on, "And Arial, the only girl, and my hairless, Papyrus. Then there's Sans and Impact, I think their siblings, but I'm not sure, and the first owner's left their cats here, Apple Chauncery and Futura, so I just added them to the group! I can't forget Mesquite and Roman and little Porcelain! And Courier, Gav's cat, and Garamond. Plus my cat, from my home, Baskerville, the little rascal-"

"Mr. Mallory," Belarus interrupted him as they reached the stairs, "I don't care about your obsession with cats in the slightest. Would you please just do your job?"

Aleksey blushed slightly, realizing his error, "Y-Yes ma'am, of course," he pointed to a door at the end of the hall, "That's the only empty room left in the house, but it was Smirnov's, so it should be fitting to your needs. If you need anything, I will be in the kitchen. Gav should be back soon, when he is I'll ask him to check on how the men are faring in bringing out the prisoners. Is this alright?"

"That is fine," Belarus glared and walked down the hall, "And another-"

The female nation oh so gracefully fell forward as her foot came in contact with a cat. Belarus managed to catch herself on a wall, the cat scattering off to the end of the hall and slipping into Belarus' room.

"Stupid cat!" she growled, "Get it out!"

"That's just Garamond," Aleksey piped up, "He likes to wander around a bit, I can't keep him out of anywhere."

"Fine, I'll get rid of the cat," she stormed into the room, "Just call me when those morons are done dragging the other morons out of their cell so I can report to my big brother." Belarus then slammed the door shut in his face.

Aleksey looked at the door for a moment, praying a little bit for his cat's nine lives.

_….Part 12: Bullets…._

_Wherever my story takes me, however dark and difficult the theme, there is always some hope and redemption, not because readers like happy endings, but because I am an optimist at heart. I know the sun will rise in the morning, that there is a light at the end of every tunnel. _

_Michael Morpurgo_

_…._

"Fire!" a voice called from outside their door.

Peter shook slightly as bullets hit the metal door for the umpteenth time in an hour.

"I don't wanna die," he whispered, hoping it would go unnoticed in the chaos.

Lovi managed enough strength to take the boy's hand limply from his position on the ground, "It's okay. We're going to be okay, kid."

Mathieu popped a few more bullets into his gun, "Lovino's right," he aimed at the door, "I'm not letting them in, no matter what."

"Matt, the door's thick," Roderich pulled the safety off his own handgun and held it in his remaining good hand, "Wait until they break through to fire, alright?"

The Canadian scoffed and adjusted his scope, "Whatever, Roddy. But I'm not letting them win."

"They aren't going to win," Elizabeta assured them, "I know it."

"Maybe you're right," Mathieu said, "But I don't want to take any chances with our lives."

Once he was happy with his gun, Matt put it down and went to his twin's side. He had earlier helped Alfred to rest as far away from the door as he could get him, and had the others group together in the corner as well.

Matt put his good arm around Alfred's shoulders as the panging of metal on metal continued to sound against the door, "I'm not going to let them win. I won't."

"Mathieu…" Elizabeta sighed, moving next to him, "You're not alone. You never were."

"I don't want anyone to get hurt anymore," he didn't even move, "I want us to survive."

Alfred leaned his head against his shoulder and took his hand, squeezing it silently and rubbing small circles into the top of it.

The Canadian bit his lip and looked down silently, squeezing the hand back, "I'm never going to let them win," he whispered, "Ever, ever, ever! They are never going to touch you again! I swear it!"

Elizabeta and Roderich sat on both sides of them, snaking their hands behind the twins, meeting in the middle. Lovino, who didn't sit that far away, lifted his head and looked up to them, holding Peter a little closer to his chest as the micronation tried to block out the sound of bullets hitting the metal.

The Hungarian kissed Matt's forehead motherly, "Calm down," she whispered into his ear, "It's alright, Mathieu, it's going to be be alright."

Matt was silent, his hands starting to shake slightly, "Their not going to win. They can't win..."

He moved slightly, burying his head in Alfred's shoulder, "They just can't."

"You should know by now, Canada," Roderich sighed, "Losing a battle does not mean losing the war. The end is coming, but so is a start."

Alfred took that moment to do more than he had in a while; the southern nation turned and wrapped his arms tight around his northern neighbor comfortingly. He rest his head on Matt's shoulder, quickly growing tired from the movement but not wanting to let go of his shaking twin.

After that, everyone was silenced, leaving only the patter of bullets on metal. There was no more comfort, no more fear, and no tears. They simply awaited their definite fate that waited for them just outside their door, hand in hand, hoping for an end to come.

They remained silent for the rest of their time in the cell they had called home for the longest time, and they were silent when the bullets piercing their door defeated the metal and their door crashed to the ground in front of them, letting in the bright, blinding light of their own ends.


	19. Parts 13-14

…_.Part 13: Separated…._

_The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives.  
Albert Schweitzer_

The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives.  
Read more at . #kqqRFcELM7YlRihU.99

The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives.  
Albert Schweitzer  
Read more at . #kqqRFcELM7YlRihU.99

The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives.  
Albert Schweitzer  
Read more at . #kqqRFcELM7YlRihU.99

…_._

Everything happened in a blur. They were all torn apart in seconds; Roderich and Hungary hardly fighting back, Peter crying, the guards forcing Alfred and Lovino to stand on their unstable legs (the later falling quite ungracefully several times), and Mathieu screaming profanities in English, French, and any other language he could think of.

The Canadian kicked and screamed loudly as some of the men grabbed him around the middle and started to pull him out, others doing the same to his startled twin, "Let him go!" he shrieked, clawing at one of the men's eyes, "Put them down!"

A soldier kicked him in the gut, firing a warning shot, "Do not resist!"

"Like hell!" Matt was back up in seconds, grabbing the leg of his brother's captor and pulling them both to the ground.

Roderich and Elizabeta yelled for the guards to stop, mostly out of concern for their angry friend. The rest of the guards quickly started to drag them out of the room, dragging a confused and horrified Lovino through the door and shoving a crying Peter behind him.

Mathieu roared as the men went to do the same to Alfred, tackling one of them and punching his twin's attacker in the nose. Alfred fell to the ground, away from the scuffle.

Matt stopped for a brief second, seeing his twin in danger again. The guards took his hesitation to their advantage and tackled the Canadian to the ground, one or two of them piling on top of him to keep him down. He growled and screamed profanities at them, still, Matt couldn't fight them off. They grabbed the twins and dragged them out separately, kicking and punching the Canadian when his struggling got out of hand and simply pushing the stumbling American out behind him.

The men rushed them up the stairs, making sure to keep them as far apart as they could, and egged them on harshly till they were at the top of the stairs. When they reached that top, the nations were forced out into the hallway.

Mathieu was the first to be shoved out. He quickly regained his balance as he was blinded by light leaking out from an open window in a hall. He never realized how bright the sun could be until that moment. The Canadian was stunned for a moment, as were the others when they were dragged up after him.

"Hurry up, dogs!" the last guard closed the door to the basement stairs, "The commander wants to see them."

_Commander? _Mathieu thought as he was sent along the halls, _Smirnov is dead, who are they talking about? _

He didn't have much longer to think before he and the others were forced against a wall. The guards quickly searched them, taking the knife Mathieu had hidden in his boot and the handgun Roderich had in his. Lovino whimpered silently as his injured leg shook and the bandages grew red again around his chest. He clutched to the wall, sweating buckets from the sheer effort of standing up.

"Bastardo," he spat as a guard started search him.

The guard laughed and wiped the bloody spit off his face before punching the Italian harshly, "Shut up, dog."

Roderich growled warningly, but did nothing as he and his fellow nations were stripped of their shoes and shirts (with the exception of Elizabeta) and had their pockets searched.

"What does this say?" a guard held Francis' letter in Mathieu's face when he pulled it from the Canadian's shirt. He remained silent only to be slapped in the face, breaking his noise and hitting his broken arm against the wall, "I asked you a question!" the soldier ordered, "Where did this come from!"

"Leave him alone!" Elizabeta pleaded, "Please! Have mercy!"

"Mercy is no longer an option, woman," a soldier glared, "You all chose this path for your selves when you went against mother Russia."

The other man continued to yell at Mathieu, "Tell me who gave this to you!"

"I found another one!" someone held up a scrap of paper and Alfred's shirt, "It's not in Russian…"

"Forget it," a larger man snapped, taking both papers and shoving them in his pocket, "Lieutenant Mallory can have Gav translate it, then we'll know exactly what they are!" He turned to the prisoners, "Take them to the new commander immediately."

The soldiers each grabbed one of them and dragged them out of the building and out into the cold.

By this point, the cold wasn't that much of a bother anymore; mostly a discomfort at worst. It was the light that was hurting them. They were blinded by the light in the hallway, but the stunning Canadian morning sunlight was more than just bright to their eyes. Mathieu actually found his eyes to be watering from the light, though he didn't wiped them.

They were let on, like lambs to the slaughter, some soldiers seeing them and hollering harsh words, a few howls in Alfred's direction (both Mathieu, Roderich, and Elizabeta turned briefly to memorize the faces the catcalls came from so they could later pay their friend vengeance). Some people threw food at them, others rocks or trash.

Luckily for them, their death march wasn't that far; the soldiers took them to the little family house in the base then stopped in front, "Wait here!" one man barked before running up to the front door, "Alek!" he barked, knocking fiercely on the door, "We have the prisoners, Alek!"

"For the bloody hundredth time!" a tall man with glasses opened the door, brandishing a military sword angrily, "My name is _Aleksey_, not Alek! Get it right one of these days or I will throw you off this base in a heartbeat, soldier!"

"Y-Yes, sir!" the once fearsome soldier suddenly turned in a small, sniveling puppy, "W-We brought the prisoners the commander requested."

Aleksey turned to face the nations on yard as he put away his sword, "Oh, so you did," he hopped off the porch, barely hitting the stairs as he went down, "Hello!" he greeted, smiling, "I am Lieutenant Aleksey Mallory, commander's assistant. I will be in charge of you until we figure out a permanent solution to our problems."

_What is this guy's problem? _Mathieu wondered, watching the man continue on, _He doesn't even look Russian, and he's speaking English. Yet he is Russian, no doubt… but still Smirnov was the only soldier on this base that spoke English, or at least the only one I was aware of. So strange…_

Mathieu was snapped out of his thoughts as the man he was examining jammed his sword in to the ground by his side and the Russian grabbed his face roughly.

Elizabeta gasped as Aleksey pulled a revolver out and held it to the Canadian's head, "I don't like to be stared at," he whispered into Matt's ear, "You would do wise not to get on my bad side on our first meeting, so I will let this slide for now, as long as you're a good boy, da?"

Matt held back a growl, nodding, feeling very humiliated. Alfred looked at him worriedly, but he just gave his twin a strong smiled before turning back to the over-active Russian.

"Good!" Aleksey jumped up pulling his sword with him, "Take them into the base. There's an entrance on the side of the house."

"Keys?" the soldier held out a hand.

Aleksey shook his head, "It doesn't lock, but last time I was down there, I think I found some chains and rope. You could probably chain them individually to the wall by the chains. There were even some hooks on the walls to hook them too."

"Alright," he nodded, "It won't take long. Do we just leave them there?"

Aleksey nodded, "Tell me when you have them chained up, please."

With that, the nations were once again moving, this time into the basement, through white storm doors on the side of the house. Unlike their previous cell, this basement was much more spacious. Shelves separated the basement into several parts, and the majority of it was well lit. The hooks Aleksey mentioned turned out to be the base for what Matt guess as a very basic canoe rack. Sadly, they appeared to be firmly attached to the wall, so he was sure he couldn't just break them off.

The soldiers suddenly grabbed the first nation they could grab, Peter, and started to drag him off to a part of the basement.

"No!" the little boy struggled, "Let go!"

"Peter don't struggle!" Roderich ordered as a man grabbed him and started to do the same, "Be strong!"

Elizabeta saw her captor coming, and quickly got away from his hold, hugged the twins and Lovino tight, then went with the soldier wordlessly. The men grabbed the Italian from the twins grasp and dragged him away.

Mathieu, on the other hand, had no wish to be chained again. He held tight to Alfred, refusing to let go despite the screaming soldiers. He lasted a good five minutes before one of them hit him on the head with the butt of a gun and he fell to the ground.

Alfred watched wordlessly as they pulled him and his twin apart.

The American was still silent as the soldier who was leading him started to chain him to the nearest hook. Alfred heard his twin started to stir from where ever he was in the basement, Mathieu calling out for him and cursing the soldiers angrily. Alfred simply waited for the soldier to finish and leave, than for the sound of the storm door shutting.

"Have a good day, dogs," a soldier sneered before leaving them alone.

_...Part 14: Amen…._

_Better than a thousand hollow words, is one word that brings peace.  
Buddha_

…

The lights were shut off and all was silent. Alfred leaned back against the shelf nearest him, suddenly feeling very cold. The small space between the shelves made him a little claustrophobic, but he wasn't afraid. After all he had been through, the American knew what fear was; fear was man-made, it was something that could only be brought on by the touch of a human being's cruel hands and evil wishes. Darkness was only a threat when there was a being in it.

It didn't take long for his eyes to adjust to the pitch blackness around him. Alfred noticed his vision was blurry, quickly realizing the issue. The right lens was completely smashed to pieces and the other was cracked but in one piece. He sighed, leaning his head back to try and forcing his glasses back on his face a little more, though it was quite hard since the right part of its frame was broken.

The American nation was worried for his own people as well as himself. Alfred wasn't stupid; he, in the past, had been naïve, not stupid, but naïve. Now, his experiences opened his eyes. He lost and Alfred was scared of what that meant for his people. If what was happening to him any equivalent to what was happening to his people, there was so much to be afraid of in that aspect alone. If his people, his nations, were hurt, Alfred- _America _would be very, very angry.

Granted, he knew he could never retaliate, at least not immediately. Revenge would take time and patience, sometime Alfred was learning a lot about recently. But vengeance was most certainly not the first thing on his mind; surviving was.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to live. Alfred wasn't afraid of death, but he knew what ever happened to him happened to his people, and he _needed _them to be alright.

That was the only thing that kept him going; the only thing that kept him from utter self-destruction. America needed to make it; that was Alfred hope.

So, the third largest nation in the world crouched down quietly, listening to his surroundings.

Alfred could hear Peter sobbing from the other side of the room. His heart hurt for the little boy; Peter didn't belong here. Children were supposed to be playing and annoying their guardian beyond their wits, not crying day and night in a war prison and worrying his guardian to no ends.

Elizabeta's soft whispers of comfort told him that they couldn't be too far apart, guessing that they were divided only by a shelf or too. The woman had been so strong through all this; Alfred felt a huge amount of respect for the woman whom he had only recently grown closer too. She had turned into a mother for all of them, and for that alone, Alfred would never be able to thank her enough.

He couldn't hear Roderich speaking, but looking straight forward through the darkness, Alfred could see the Austrian's distinct frame sitting up against the wall opposite him. Even through the shadows, Alfred knew the man was clutching his wounded hand. He himself had never heard the music Roderich was known for. He had heard what his people played many times, but nothing from the man himself. Now, he feared he never would be able to. There was no worse fate for a man than to lose what he loves, and Roderich had to be heartbroken beyond anything.

By tilting his head slightly, Alfred could get a brief glimpse of Lovino's still form around the corner. The Italian had to be in major pain, but there was nothing they could do for him. His only chance for survival was rescue. He needed medicine, comfort, _anything _other than this. If something didn't happen soon, Lovino would die, for that fact, Alfred had no doubts.

The only thing Alfred was worried about more than Lovino's health and his own people was his twin. Alfred couldn't even figure out where Mathieu was in the basement, let alone hear him. Mentally, the Canadian had to be exhausted. He was putting himself under so much pressure and stress there was no way Mathieu was scarred for life. Alfred was ashamed to think that his own downfall would also end up as his dear brother's as well, but a nagging little voice in the bag of his mind wouldn't let him forget that his brother was ready to sacrifice everything for him while he had nothing to offer in recompense for his kind deeds.

Mathieu's physical issues would be a much worse issue as well. He should rest his arm, not find new creative ways to break it all over again! At this point, Alfred was seriously afraid he might not heal correctly. He wanted Mathieu to be alright, he wanted his brother to be okay for all the shit he put himself through, the Canadian deserved to have so much better. Alfred only hoped for the best.

He leaned back into the wall and tried to force his stiff body into a more comfortable position, though he found that to be very difficult with his hands chained above his head. He eventually gave up with a sigh and simply brought his knees to his chest and his chin on his knees, than curled into a tight ball.

He wanted this to end. The darkness, the pain, the sadness of his fellow nations; it all had to end sometime, right? All Alfred wanted was an end to this morbid story Russia was laying out before them. He just wanted to go home, to let Peter see his big brother again, to have Roderich play a happy song on the piano, to hear Elizabeta laugh, to watch Lovino argue with Feli over stupid nonsense, and to see his own brother smile without having to hold back a cringe.

Alfred didn't know what to do anymore. Simply hoping didn't seem to help anymore, nor did dreams (they all turned to nightmares anyway), and he was always too tired to do more than basic functions.

He heard the storm door open.

Was that his heart thumping? No, it couldn't be. Hadn't his heart stopped long ago? Wasn't he just an empty husk, waiting for an end? Why was he scared again? No one could do any worse to him than what he had already been through. No one could match a horror like that. Still, he found himself hoping, _praying, _for something to happen. A light, an angel, a bit of good in this endless bought of silence.

As two figures approached him, almost in surprise and shock (was that a woman? It couldn't be Belarus, could it?), Alfred leaned his head back against the wall and whispered to no one in particular, "Amen," then closed his eyes.


	20. Part 15-16

…_.Part 15: …._

_Worry does not mean fear, but readiness for the confrontation._

_Bashar al-Assad_

…_.._

Belarus stared at the slumped American at her feet.

Despite the unwavering loyalty to her big brother, the female nation suddenly felt a rush of… something welling up in her. It wasn't quite sympathy, yet she knew it wasn't contempt or hatred of any kind. Pity, possibly? She just couldn't tell.

The other nations were in no better shape either. They were all glaring up at her, angrily, their eyes filled with hateful understanding and pain. Just at a glance, Belarus could see that their wounds were deep and their minds were broken into a constant state of paranoia. It was so… disgusting, in a way, to see people she had known to be strong, powerful nations reduced to such a state.

Looking down at Alfred, Belarus saw a prime example of what had been going on. She herself had never been acquainted with the nation of America that well in the past, but she had known from others that he had been a loud, obnoxious yet strong and happy being. The nation that sat at her feet was weak, ill, and broken beyond any standards, the exact opposite of what he was supposed to be. Still, his eyes held a certain burning emotion deep in his electric blue eyes as they searched her for a purpose.

They all looked just as broken; holding their injuries silently, ignoring their pain. It was disturbing, monstrous, _evil-_

She shook her head slightly, realizing how much she was starting to sound like Ukraine. Her big brother was never wrong. This had to be done. Belarus turned to Aleksey, who stood by her side, "I want them interrogated. Are there any empty rooms in the house?"

"No," the Russian replied, adjusting his glasses, "But there is a small shed out back, if that would work."

"Make it work," she fixed her coat, turning away from the searching blue eyes, "And get them some medical attention. I will not have my big brother's prisoners dying on my watch."

"Understood, Miss Belarus," Aleksey nodded, "To any specific extent?"

"I said," he glared, "Don't let them die. Whatever needs to be done. But don't go overboard; we don't have that many supplies."

"I'll do my best," Aleksey smiled, "I'll have someone look at them. It won't take me long to prepare the shed; I'll find you when we're ready."

"Good," she said, "Get to it."

Aleksey departed with a smile, rushing up the stairs and ordering some soldiers to assist him.

Belarus was then left with her fellow nations in silence. She could practically feel the coldness and hate coming from them.

"I hope you all realize none of this is my fault," she felt like she had to say something.

"You're a traitor," a growl came from farther back in the basement.

Belarus walked over and peered down at the angry Canadian, "I was never on your side. I am only loyal to big brother."

"Is he loyal to you?" Matt questioned, glaring up at her as he struggled against his bonds, "Does he care about what happens to you?'

"Of course big brother does!" she snapped, her better judgment forgotten, "He loves me."

He didn't bother holding back a laugh, "He sent you out here didn't he? Do you honestly think Russia cares if he'd send you right into the middle of all this? You must be out of your mind."

"_Enough_ Mathieu," Elizabeta scorned, stopping Belarus from bursting out in anger.

Belarus glared at her briefly before pulling out her gun and pointing it at the Canadian, "Take it back."

"I don't lie," he smiled, evilly.

"_Take it back_," she growled, shoving the barrel into his face, pushing his glasses to the bridge of his nose, "Take it back!"

"I will take back what I said about your brother when you can take back what he did to mine!" he practically screamed at her.

The female nation was shocked for a moment, but quickly regained her stance, slipping her gun into its holster, "This is _war_. One tragedy will not stop big brother, nor me. I only care about big brother. Even if your right, and he doesn't care about me, I can do enough for both of us. I will fight for my big brother until the very end."

As a silence crept over them again, Belarus walked away from the Canadian and straight out the door, but Mathieu's words echoed in her head over and over again.

_Is he loyal to you?_

_Does he really care about you?_

_You're a traitor._

She had nothing to do with what happened to his twin, Belarus figured he must be simply letting out bent up rage. Still, was he right? Could he possibly understand more than Belarus did? She didn't know; it was a bit confusing. What had been going on in this base to make her fellow nations take on the state they were in?

"Miss Belarus?" a voice behind her said, "The integration room is prepared."

"Thank you, Mr. Mallory," she said as Aleksey walked up to her, "Send the medical aid first though."

"Why?" he questioned.

She headed back to the house porch, "I don't want them dying while I'm talking to them."

He chuckled, "Da, that would be quite bad. I'll send someone over immediately," he stopped for a second, "Miss Belarus?"

"What?" she turned.

Aleksey "It's only been a day, but…"

Belarus took a step off the porch, "Spit it out, Mallory."

"Never mind," he shook his head laughing, "It's not important. I will go get the medical staff. Have a good night, Miss Belarus."

She watched the man go off to the old school building, listening to the change in his voice as he went from a kind and caring cat-maniac to a strong, no nonsense leader.

Belarus shook her head and stepped into the house, mind still try to comprehend all that had just happened and what was going to happen soon.

…_.Part 16: Father…._

_A father is a man who expects his son to be as good a man as he meant to be._

_Frank A. Clark_

…

After the Belarusian left, Mathieu leaned back into the wall.

"Are you insane?" Roderich hissed in his direction, which was directly in front of his area, "You could have gotten us all killed!"

"I had it completely under control, Roderich," the Canadian called back, closing his eyes.

"Like hell you did!" he scorned, completely losing his cool.

"And you're doing any better?" Mathieu argued.

Elizabeta interrupted Roderich before he could reply, "Stop acting like children!" she yelled in both directions, silencing them, "_Canada_, your outburst was completely uncalled for. I understand your frustrations, but the more we egg them on, the more likely they are to act rashly," as the Canadian lowered his head, she turned in the general direction of Roderich, "_You_, Austria, I am ashamed of."

"_Elizabeta!" _Roderich implored.

"Don't you 'Elizabeta' me," she scoffed, "You of all people should know how to hold your temper, Austria! Arguing with children _like children _will get us nowhere."

The Austrian was silent, feeling a mix between indifference and respect.

Knowing that she had won her battle, the Hungarian turned back to the direction of Mathieu, "Regardless, are you all right, Matt? Did she hurt you at all?"

"…" a small silence held the room before he answered to the darkness, "I'm fine, Lizzy."

"No you're not," she quickly picked up on the hesitation, "What's wrong. Is it your arm again?"

Mathieu sighed and laid back against the wall nearest him, closing his eyes and trying to move his injured arm in the shackles, "It hurts…"

She sighed, "How bad?"

"Like it's on fire," he groaned, "I-I… It's never been this bad before. It's like someone's ripping it apart."

"It's going to be alright, Canada," Elizabeta bit her lip, "Belarus said that she was sending some medical aid in right? It's better than nothing; they'll do something."

He opened his eyes again, looking up at the cement ceiling, "Al?" he called out, disregarding Elizabeta, "Can you hear me?"

Alfred perked up a little, waking him from his slight state of dozing. He looked over in the direction of his brother's voice through the dark, and tapped the wall with his foot twice to make a sound.

"How far down are you?" Matt tilted his head to the sound, "You sound close."

The American strained his ear, surprised to hear the voice sound more than just close to him, but almost next to him. He shifted position and started to kick at the items on the shelf to his left, knocking away a few till he could see the other shelf.

Matt figured out where he was in the shadows and tried to move a few, though his pain made it fairly difficult to do so. Eventually, Alfred cleared enough of the shelf's contents to be able to comfortably peer in to his twin's area.

"Hey there, bro…" the Canadian smiled tiredly, "It's good to see you."

Alfred didn't show any response, only tried to look over his twin with concern.

"Mathieu," Elizabeta tried to gain his attention again, "Please talk to me. You're going to be fine."

"No I won't, Lizzy," he bit his lip and leaned his head back against the wall.

"Of course you will!" she argued, "Don't talk like that, it isn't healthy."

"I don't want to lie to myself," he sighed, tilting his head to the side and closing his eyes again.

Peter heard their conversation and woke up, "What's wrong?" he piped up.

"It's nothing, Peter," Roderich answered, "Don't worry."

"It really is nothing," the Canadian agreed, "It's inevitable."

"You are going to be fine Mathieu!" the Hungarian insisted, shaking her chains to the darkness as if to prove her point, "Why are you so stubborn?"

"_Because I can't feel it anymore_," he finally breathed out, biting his lip in pain and anger, "It's _completely numb_. Like it isn't even part of my body! But it still _hurts_, God it hurts. There's no way I am 'going to be fine', there's no way. There's just no way."

They were all silent as the dark was filled with Matt's soft sobs and the clanking of his chains as he shook.

Admitting his weakness seemed to be the breaking point for the Canadian. The strong, calm façade he had borne since his twin returned to them broken seemed to melt away as his pain won its battle over his emotions. He didn't even try to hold back his tears, allowing himself to unleash all the pain he had been holding back for months to flood out.

"Mathieu," a gentle voice broke the silence, but he didn't respond, instead continued to sob, "Matt, listen to me."

The sobbing boy's cries slowed a little, "W-What, Roderich?"

"Breathe," the Austrian urged, squinted to see him a little clearer across the aisle, "Just breathe."

Matt's sob turned to softer cries quickly, though the shaking remained stubborn, making the ache in his injured arm worse.

Roderich bit his lip, "Mathieu, it's going to be alright. Trust me."

"Haven't we been over this, Roddy," he scoffed, "It's not alright."

"It _will be_," he insisted, "You taught me that, Matt."

"Hm?" Matt raised his head.

He laughed ruefully, "You heard me. Before we got stuck in this mess, all I could think about was music. What song fit the mood, how to play it, or the next moment I could make music was all I cared about. I only cared about myself and my music," he looked to his injured hand that dangled in its shackles, "But all that's gone now. To be honest, when it happened, I thought about music first. I-I was selfish to think about something so trivial in such a place at such a time. Now though, I think I understand what's important, and you're the one who taught me that."

"What did I teach you?" the Canadian's tears subsided for curiosity.

"You taught me what love is," he explained, smiling, "Love is a burden we care for someone we care about. It can cause all the pain and suffering in the world, but the moment we take the burden off our shoulders it stops being love and is nothing but a chore. But when we hold on to our burden until it's taken from our shoulders, the love we carry grows to amazing proportions, recuperating all the pain it causes. All that you've done since we got here was done out of love for your brother, your people, and your world. For that, I respect you. I know that you're going to be alright, because you are too loved not to be."

Once again, tears wielded up in Matt's eyes and he started to cry again, weather out of fear or happiness, even he couldn't tell in the dark.

For about three more hours, it went on the same; Mathieu crying, Roderich calming, Elizabeta listening with a sense of pride at how far her lover had gone, Alfred drifting in and out of sleep, never leaving the position from his brother was in plain sight, Peter snoozing, and Lovino completely out for the count.

After a while, Matt tired himself out and drifted to a dreamless slumber, leaning against his uninjured arm.

"You make a wonderful father," Elizabeta commented, just loud enough for Roderich to hear.

He smiled, making sure he got a glimpse of each of his 'children' at least once, "And you a splendid mother."

They chuckled together, taking in the silence of their little 'family' when the cellar doors opened suddenly and light shined in.


End file.
